Best Jots Poems
The A.D.D. poet, knows not of forms.
His mind is adrift, his thoughts move in swarms.
He loathes punctuation, he oft lacks the words.
To convey his whole meaning, to strike the right chords
He has no control, of what he retains
He tries to make sense, of what little remains.
He's left with an archive, of incomplete visions
Forged of distractions, which breed indecision.
He jots every line, with the best of intention.
Trying to conclude, despite fading attention.
Then he has an epiphany, if explored he could finally be free!!!!!
Then he gets hungry, makes a sandwich, and is off to watch TV.
Dark skies fill eyes of despair,
Full of hurt and anger that grows so strong;
A pain-filled child ready to rip out her hair,
All her life never feeling like she belongs.
Dark-bright eyes, rimmed in smeared mayballine,
With moon-colored skin they look haunted.
A tortured wild-girl ready to scream,
Knowing deep inside that she isn't wanted.
Looking out through blood red strands,
At what could be her kill or prey;
Yellow-green cat eyes scan the land,
Ready to take out an enemy and leave it to decay.
So lost inside with not a light;
Showing anger instead of her pain.
Taking out her injuries on the world in spite;
The emotions inside so hard to contain.
One little slice turns to ten,
Before she knows it shes addicted.
She jots down her words in black liquid pen,
Her heart so jumbled, feels constricted.
No one knows the secrets she hides;
She doesn't think anyone would care
She's tossed under the rip-tides,
trapped unable to breath with the tricking suns glare.
On the prey she paces like a cat;
A black panther so smooth, with a wicked saunter.
At any moment ready to strike and go into full combat,
Ready to win front and center.
If you look into her sinful eyes,
Would you see all her lies and truths;
Or get trapped in her promiscuous disguise.
Deep inside shes a sleuth,
Watching how everyone else in the world acts;
Wondering if she can too act like that.
When someone finds out why she' like this, it stops her in her tracks;
She attacks, then hides in the dark like a bat.
She's the Dark Poet; the Little Lost one.
There is no hope for her;
She knows all hope has been lost, the threads come undone;
She's trapped in her own world, with a panthers black purr.
Given up all effort to try and make it better then it is;
She doesn't see the point in trying anymore.
Even her heart screams out "you will never be his",
Left to lay her beautiful corps on the floor.
She's haunted, twisted, evil little one, she's so dark inside,
Finally she'll let it all out, she'll let people see,
There is nothing left to hide,
I promise I've never killed anyone,
But me...
Writers wrong readers with wiles
Please protect poetry and prose
From flagrant fraudulent fancies
Of overwritten odius odes.
A related collection of poetry
Now can be published at whim.
The author just needs lots of money,
Hubris,and perhaps a few pencils or pens.
Once the selection is published,
Layman will fawn at the elequent jewels,
Of eight words of lithe, flowery meter,
Grouped together by formal,old rules,
You and I know better,we can't be fooled.
Another anthology appears
Boldly boasting ballades
Can't construct cinquain
Ditto deconconstructing didactic
Easy efforts elevate essentially
Fabulous flippery, fun, fauxmance.
Give gifts ,gaity, glory
Hide hyperbole ,hail honesty
Ignore idiosincricy
Jubilant jeweled jots,
Krielle knowledge,
Luminates lovers learning.
Masters manage monoku
No one notices nonsense
Only ones own oratory
Presents problems personally
Quatern quixotically quizes
Rhymers,readers, royalaires.
Simples statements said softly
Translate terse tense truthfully
Unless unabridged
Villanelles vex vaguries
Written without wordiness
Yes,you yearn, yearn yonder
Zee's zero
For Deb's Challenge A A and a Mistress
Brenda Atry
Another anthology appears
Boldly boasting ballads.
Can't construct cinquain,
Ditto deconstructing didactic.
Easy efforts elevate essentially.
Fabulous frippery, fun, fauxmance.
Giving gifts ,gaiety, glory.
Hiding hyperbole ,hailing honesty.
I ignore idiosincricy.
Jubilant jeweled jots.
Krielle knowledge,
Luminates lovers learning.
Masters manage monoku.
No one notices nonsense.
Only ones own oratory,
Presents problems personally.
Quatern quixotically quizzes,
Rhymers,readers, royalaires.
State simple statements softly.
They translate terse tense truthfully.
Unless unabridged,
Villanelles vex vagueries.
Written without wordiness,
Yes,you yearn, yearn yonder, zee's zero
Ignoble though our dawn of days,
yet intoned is worthy praise
of legion minds whose reasoned grasp
has ever roared at starry heaven’s
distant vault—Omniscience’
mighty pillars to confound.
Yet I hesitate and wonder,
if we alone proud mantle don
to reason and opine,
or whether listens now
on curved space’
strange and distant shore
an ancient, brooding mind
who jots it all on pages
of a tiny book it is
writing about us.
Seventh place in the Let's Get Technical Contest
My friends say this magnificent rose
Gives off the most wonderful aroma of spring
I am catching a scent somewhat obscure
As yet no recognizable thing
For I'm losing the sense
Of smell in my nose
Perhaps what I'm smelling
Though peculiar and unselling
Is this lovely flower
This most fragrant rose
Most likely it's the pasture
Expelling natural gas
Which is nostalgic and familiar
With its hint of ammonia and pungent aroma
But, I fear, even this shall pass
There's the most angelic sound in the meadow nearby
That is what my lovely neighbor conveys
She jots down the melody with each bar and clef
For I cannot hear it
I am practically deaf
But I do hear the shrill voice
Of my neighbor's young lass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though disconcerting and frightful
And never delightful
I fear, even this shall pass
The most beautiful creature stops at my house
It arrives every day to feed
This is just what I've heard
To me it's all blurred
For a new pair of glasses I need
But I do see the glare
From a bonfire of grass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though odious and weedy
And noxiously seedy
I fear, even this shall pass
My neighbor is bringing a dinner she will baste
Which others around highly praise
The sensation for me is hardly a meal
I have lost the better part of my taste
But I savor the peppers
She always brings me in mass
Which are nostalgic and familiar
Though indigestible and spicy
And especially dicey
I fear, even this shall pass
I fondly remember my wife's gentle touch
But this sense too I now lack
If it weren't for the fall
I'd have no sensation at all
But, for these sharp piercing pains
Down my back - Alas! Alas!
While nostalgic and familiar
And though crippling and painful
It is nothing disdainful
And I fear, even this shall pass
Now when I'm gone all will be quite sublime
I will have transcended to the sixth sense
I will be free as a bird
Free from the limits of time
Reunited with the Lord of Providence
Behold my pen
that writes and scribbles
and bleeds blue ink
in drips and dribbles.
That crosses paper
in bites and nibbles
and weighs my thoughts
in spite of quibbles.
Words as strange as
this and then.
Letters and numbers
like S and 10.
Thoughts and feelings
I've had before.
Memories waiting
the pen to bore.
Lines as long
as stretching can.
Jots and jolts
where each began.
Loving strokes
to those I send.
Messages made
that they might blend.
All these meanings
from the heart.
Behold my pen.
Their only art.
I know someone who jots down short poetry.
Now she puts what she writes inside a fortune cookie.
As the wind gushes through the pane,
she jots down crystal-clear memoirs
from a flawless hand, still radiant;
while tendrils of a past causes
flushed eyes to melt in the glass of evening.
Then pausing between emblazoned lines,
a web of sagas transports her musings
in a village where life details the ache
and glory of unwanted farewell;
the summer air turning blooms into molds
as new autumn's lungs exhale without crisp sounds.
Quietly, Aunt Jenny folds the sepia-book
to gaze at the beauty of twilight,
where cloudburst fades like distant remains...
then, washing the pale mist of yester-years,
she breathes in solace: a woman freed
by putting a name to her own unfurled dream,
ready for rain’s music of tamed sleep
when a nightingale drifts from a branch,
quiet, quiet as feathered reverie.
(c)
Must Be Read Contest
For Silent One
Alive, alert, alight with the Almighty’s aura
Beautiful, brilliant, breathtaking thoughts bring
Creative, colorful, calming creations to capture
Dreams, dancing, daintily around the dawn delights
Echoing, enchanting, encouraging easy enthusiasm
Feelings, friendly and free, filled with fancy facts
God’s great and glorious gifts to us, who are graced
Heaven’s happy harbor to heal and harmonize in
Inspirations, insights, inclusion in imaginings so
Joyful, jovial, joined with just and justified jots
Keepers, keynotes, kittens worthy of true kindness
Lasting, laughing, loving lights brought to life
Musical, merry, miracles marching to mercy’s
Nature, naked, naïve names for new nations
Open, obsessed, overwhelmed with obedience
Perfect, peaceful, praiseful words to prayers
Quiet, quaint, quality ideas for quickening
Rainy, resilient, relaxing reflections on rapture
Soft, soothing, silence capturing soulful spirits
Talents, trust, time taken to teach God’s truths
Understanding, urgency, useful thinking united
Valuable, vigilant, vibrant dreams visualized
Warm, welcoming, wisdoms whispering wants
Xenias, xanthins, xanthones for marine xebecs
Youthful, yearly, yarns telling of sweet yesterdays
Zestful, zany zones filled with divine feelings of zeal
''Z'' Contest, New or Old - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
December 5, 2021
You Are Here red dot on map
Where is the laughter?
twenty! dots ? - For Dr.Ram Mehta's contest Quinzaine
Drip drop, splish splat, flip flop,
tick-tock, drops like clock,
chimes click away
as ice thaws
dribble
jots
Whiskers sweep around her
sweet little wrinkled lips
weathered by age.
His hair cascading
silver grey curls around
his ripped flannel shirt
and balding top.
Everyday he orders
the same.
Country ham steak,
eggs sunny, with a side
salad. Ranch dressing.
The consistency captivates
attention, and while
he sits back and settles on
the regular.
Her plump little
breakfast sausage fingers
scan the menu for
something new.
Sometimes she writes
in Gaelic translating
fagoli and ravioli
into historic tongues.
The laugh with me about
the theatre, symphonies
and art.
In her faded tie dye she
jots down my schedule
because they won't sit
with anyone else.
We spend these
mid afternoon meal moments.
Sitting in a familiar booth
watching the sun slide
into the building tops.
He hits the snooze alarm twice
before getting up. He’s already
been up three times during the night.
Two cats are waiting for him downstairs
but for now they leave him alone.
He wistfully looks out the window
as gray skies cast a soft glow.
He says he had a good dream
but can’t recall.
He calls out a woman’s name
but I’ve never met her.
His right shoulder aches.
He mentions something
about the years he bears.
A ravine lies at the end of the street
and bare trees reach for clouds
as they wait for spring.
He says that life on a dead end
is more than it seems.
He jots down a line or two
on a blank page. He plays
a song or two on You tube
and lets inspiration stir
for a moment.
His fingers stroke keys
and bring a poem to life
then holds up the creation
to light.
He showers in haste
pets the cats
and they watch him
as he runs out the door
and goes for a drive.
From her thick, littered journal
Notes of passion burn with love
Against clangs of dinnerware---
Till hours roam into near morn
Her spouse digging through work’s pile.
Upstairs, she jots tender lines
Dreaming of intimate nights .
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