Best Juts Poems
My schooner eases
into the tiger claw
that an umber peninsula
juts seaward.
The carnelian bay
beckons like honey
as I aim
for twilight's tangerine
and sun's waning citrine
in amber haze.
Papaya clouds whipped
by solar winds
breathe the siren lure
of bronze oceans
in the scriptural future
to my restless golden heart.
6/30/2018
A shadow’s bean juts out over the shore
One that I have not seen before
Enlarged beyond my own
No color, no tone.
I’ve been this way for many a time
Was young then and in my prime,
I have not seen it until now
Missed it, but how?
No streaks from the sky could be this
It troubles me but how could I miss,
It was not from a dream
My reality seems so extreme
Tried to imagine intergalactic arrival
Would life here end without survival?
What if there becomes annihilation
This would stamp out all such creation.
If I am this shadow I would be the same
Only thing is, whence did it came
Comparing my motions as I walk
It straddles me and doesn’t talk.
I know shadows occur but not like that
I had ones that were smaller and younger in fact,
It didn’t shimmy to or from
Gives me the chills, just can’t get warm.
I noted some changes in shape and trim
It looked at me in sort of a grin,
Tapped me on my left shoulder
“I am you, we are now much older”.
Curved white, feathered neck, poised just right;
Half bird, half body, unfolds into bright light.
The face stays frozen, choosing not to show;
For the feathers alone, decide where eyes must go.
She glides and struts, poised with such fanfare,
Her garments become feathers to float on the air.
Her fine body vanquished, to shun any stare,
For she is merely the elegance, her garments wear.
She pauses, pivots, swings round, so debonair.
Her shoulder tilts, her wrist juts with flair.
Each measured turn commands its own grand grace.
As feathers swirl outward, to claim more space.
The white swans depart the catwalk in style,
Their black beaks can't even fashion a smile.
For that's the game— be serene, silent and proud—
Leaving only feathers to flit in the crowd.
My hands caress the curious shapes
And search for hidden cracks and nooks
Like blind men touch a lover’s face.
At last a probing finger hooks
Around the slender sandstone waist
Of a small pillar. On a ledge
I stand on tip toe. High above
My fingertips just reach an edge
That juts out sharply. And I crimp
And hold the tenuous grip and pull.
I jam my foot right in a crack,
And lift my body. I am full
Of joy and happiness. I climb!
The bloody knuckles and scraped knees
Don’t matter. As I near the top
My hair is waving in the breeze.
For contest A Body of Work
Sponsored by Viv Wigley
Body parts used (in order of appearance):
Hands, face, finger, waist, toe, fingertips, foot, knuckles, knees, hair
With a protective nature
saving small birds,
My pup juts out claws out the gate-
Though looking different from other dogs
Dear German Snicks slithers
with an enduring gait...
and one Sunday play, she fell pale,
robust runs and charmed antics
missed her tail sways...a cough,
a much older stroll? How can I
put her to greys of sleep?
Missing her now,
those barks which speak of love
Reside in my heart as I think of her
When that spirit- fire breathes away,
Finally embracing the gentle wisp of light.
------------
Laura Loo's Contest
1/25/2016
Jewel is largest orb,
Jazzed third bright in night sky,
Juts in fifth place from sun.
Joins name of Roman god.
Jam rules Sag and Pisces;
Jells expansion and grace,
Jives like a lucky star.
March 5, 2017
howmanysyllables.com
Kim Merryman / Pleiades J
Ever since the creation of mankind
Life has puzzled the human mind
Has anybody ever questioned its origin?
Poets, philosophers , sociologists are still behind the margin
The first man's companion were darkness and solitude
God created Eve to fight this nigritude
Living together they populated the world
For their children to say their word
Made up of three stages
man spends life through different ages
Childhood, adolescence and oldness are the main frames
That fit in the games
Why do we cry on our arrival?
Because life is not a carnival
It is rather a mission
Where everyone tries to maintain his position
Juts like a coin with two sides
Life looks easy inside but tough outside
But whether head or tail
The ship has to sail
Toddlers teeter on the hollowed trunks and sport with juts of ice.
'Cross boulder bridges, flouting rapids, hop the agile blond and beige.
Yet in close chase, for or found, and on uneven ground, they’ll slip.
Clots in black and rose bespatter tans and whites.
Though clouds may cope the flights of cubs and fawns in torrents spirit laden,
steps shan’t be erased, where o’er plight’s edge they’re furrowed.
Would least the cliff lay lad to nestle upon drifts of pedals fallow
or as cradled by green swaths of summer blades.
For if to hope, the whelp when bade need but renounce a bed of clover,
might a father’s beckon stern retrieve the slain.
But scolds can echo no reprieve where o’er forever’s precipice
the yearling brown has left the seasons scarlet stained.
Though with the day’s advance, a glance would chance the fact all tracks do fade,
in the havens gray, in every trace, we dawdle.
It’s the cleft that blanched a mother’s face. Bereft, her tears are gained.
And blood ‘s been shed till never, like the rains.
OPENING NIGHT
she slips
juts hips
dish flips
no tips
waitress flounders. she slips! juts hips! first
unbalanced meal. dish flips! no tips! WORST!
Analysed
In pieces,
A broken mirror
Splinters of reflection leering at the sky,
Dry and lifeless,
Gasping, drowning in a dingy flood
A river, a tempest, a storm
Forlorn.
'You are the fragile one' she told me,
you smiled and clutched my hand.
'You are the fragile one' she said,
I smiled as you clutched my hand,
Did you understand?
Fragile?
Me?
Yes but in what sense?
Glass is fragile, and so is crystal,
Porcelain too and so are you.
Was it not you that cried,
Was it not I that died, inside.
I tried, God knows I tried,
I tried to be there for you and us and her,
Unsustainable, improbable
So sad inside,
So black, so oppressive
Nowhere to hide
From the beast within.
But remember Niagara?
You chased squirrels through the lens,
In a sense, we were happy then,
Juts you, just me.
I remember the garden, I always will
The rings at our fingers,
Were a light burden then,
The flame wreathed eye
As yet unaware of our meagre presence.
I miss you and what we were or could have been,
I see it in her eyes, the last shreds
What little remains.
I can almost here you laughing still,
When your laughter was that of a girl
And the woman in you was but
a butterfly drunk on pollen and sky,
why?
Why did it have to be this way?
Was it all my doing?
Was it me to kill the light of you?
Was it my darkness that thrust you into shadow?
I cannot say, I do not know,
but I feel it to be so.
And that hurts,
And it is worst when I see her,
So happy, so free,
So much of you, in her,
So much of me.
Afraid.
She might become too much like me
Or too much like you,
Ideally let her be like us,
The better part of us and what we once were,
The better part of me, the better part of you,
In her.
Carlos
"Complex Of Swerves"
When one has a tender heart
And a heart real and true,
Being among fake, callous hearts,
Is a difficult thing to do.
When one has a giving heart
And so, gives generously,
Being among the predators,
Is a dangerous place to be.
When one has a caring heart
With empathy and compassion,
They get treated like those who,
The opposite, keep in fashion.
When one has an honest heart,
Where truth reigns supreme,
The liars spin their lies as truth,
Make the honest like liars, seem.
When one has a humble heart
And choose to put others first,
Attention grabbers take advantage,
Steal recognition even if unversed.
Is it any wonder why so many then will choose
As their path of life, the one traveled most,
Where character of quality one cares not if they lose,
Settle for mediocrity, as their lesser on, they coast?
To cultivate integrity in the present world,
With all the traits of human blackness being shown,
Is an act of bravery when all that's being hurled
Is the vileness of humanity so many seem to hone.
It's rough to be a person genuine and sincere;
Choosing to be honest and mean what you say,
When all you'll get is categorized with a sneer
Among those superficial as their chosen way.
Staying on the right path takes a whole lot of guts;
Requires determination, based on values all but lost.
It's a maze lined every which way with many toxic juts;
With quicksand awaiting where sinfulness is glossed.
All the human vultures and the wolves dressed as sheep
Around every twist and bend, in hollows and in curves,
Lurking, ready, waiting for another soul to reap
Makes survival in this world a Complex Of Swerves.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2018-06-08 06:10:00 (EDT)
All rights reserved.
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Seven
The balding weeping willow by the Prefecture Gate’s railings
There where on drowsy summer’s day gather swan and goslings
To unfurl and let fan the crisp ensconced feathery quills
Litter and scum frothing in a creepy morass of leavings
Yarrow stalk mats faded leaves sticking to twigs and branches
Skewered tins dead fish collapsed beer cans plastic bags bottles
Shredded rags browned-off yesteryear’s papers broken toys turds
All fizzing curdling in unholy pot au feu stenches
There where her knee-cap juts round the firemen’s helicopter pad
Along the shin-wobbling cobbled promenade laid rough shod
Signs of her sick bowels cling to the nostrils and sticky soles
Or is she with baby taken her tummy heavy with pod
Had old Khayyam goosed her during abandoned sleep numbness
Caring less for her image than her breeding will confess
Or did she dream immaculate conception to walk the plank
Even before returning cranes cross over to Loch Ness
Alas! Deep in her longing quest the lone siluroid dreams
More than all the poetasters of Isphahan Khayyam convenes
The sun at four burns sickly upon her breast and collar bones
Woe to the Damsel in distress the Poet forsakens!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
An artifact juts from the dirt
with glib glyphs and weird words
A man holding a snake
and the outline of a lake
Seem to warn present day man
with scrawl from a caveman
Is it cryptic scribble-scrabble?
Is it ancient psycho-babble?
One finger points to the sky
Does it mean the time is nigh?
A broken ankh and a scarab
And an angry looking cherub
Seem to say, "Don't forget,
You came from the One who begets.."
Or maybe it's just a prehistoric cartoon
Drawn by some crazy loon
Above my burdened desk hangs my bulletin board..
I think I must try make time to get a bigger one soon.
My busy life has crowded this one so much,
I can't find what I had just posted there yesterday.
I love this board, it looks like a giant brown apple,
outlined in red , so ripe in the bounty of my life.
A school picture of the apple of my aging eyes,
my oldest grandson, dangles from the apple stem.
Little ones peek through reminders, an unpaid bill,
Thank you cards and a dental appt., now there's a thrill!
The corner of my favorite card juts out behind a recipe ..
The card is a picture of two dinosaurs on the bank..
watching the ark sail away..one says to the other.
" Oh crap! Was that today?, the inside is still blank."
A calendar tells me what the rest of the month holds.
This collage of my life is a pleasure in my day.
Maybe I wont get a bigger one after all...
10/ 13/13
If I was a house I’d be detached
Secure in my walls, untouched
My roof angled against the rain
My windows, tightly shut, secure
My front garden neat, the back
Garden uncut, scruffy, untidy
My brickwork would be red
My front door council blue
My childhood had yellow doors
We never got the blue or green
My driveway would be long
Keeping the world outside
The gates would have a chain
Wooden panels attached to
The side walls, a gate cut
To enter the garden, via a path
A satellite dish juts from the wall
The signal welcome, the world not.
Because, if I was a house, I’d be detached.
David Cox 02/08/22