Jutting Poems | Examples

South Bank Centre

Nestled among the shining peaks
of flashing glass and girded steel,
gilded mansions enjoyed by sheiks;
who queue for nearby Ferris wheel;
near Parliament’s Gothic seat,
Shakespeare’s Elizabethan Globe,
It sits, grey, brutal, pure concrete
shameless without a cladded robe.
It’s naked beauty clads itself
around creativeness within.
I am it shouts, I am myself
without a falsifying skin.
With jutting angles, edges hard,
it’s beauty is more honest than
the Pickle, Telephone, or Shard
I will forever be a fan.

Sonnet about sonnets

Rhyming in iambic, counting fingers
Trying to make sense, syllables dropping,
Onto archaic form, often lingers,
Instead of language, clopping and popping,
Modern with its sublime spoken diction,
Filled with colloquial noises and slang.
A beautiful work of spoken fiction
Caroused in exuberance and shebang.
But shouldn’t I just, stay to the meter,
And in its essence, play along in truth,
Finding its Shakespearian bleak feature
With rhymes jutting, strutting quite proud and crude.
The Sonnet seems, quite complicated,
But could it be really overrated?

Frame Of Crystal Eyes

Somehow among the hidden leaves of time
when quietude swerves on a lane,
there is a throb of evening's breath
panting inside those marble eyes

that if I gaze long enough into darkness
your iced look will blink,
to open windows that are locked
by hinges creating angst enmeshed.

The distant screams paint your irises
jutting out from a frame of hard lids
buried deeply on frigid weeds---
and the night loses its elegance

while your crystal tears invade the glow 
in the lamp of your eyes-- I understand
 how private this time is when you
 fade away...knowing not I am there.


First Place

painted ladies

painted ladies

over the years i have forgotten her eyes
that her smile was soft
and her hair like chiffon on a wednesday morning

we walked along stanyan street
celebrating the colors of a fall morning
listening to simon and garfunkel
and watching steam rise from beneath the street 

the majesty of the painted ladies 
on steiner street came alive as they stared us down
two lovers hand in hand 
looking for a place to lay a blanket 
in alamo square park

we must have looked bland
compared to their flamboyancy
queen anne archetecture—fancy and flashy 
combinations of bay windows 
from which lovers could be watched  
jutting turrets and ornately decorated rooflines

even then, when i saw the brilliant pink
of a lady, i saw you, your lips, your smile
and of the blue, i saw your eyes, the sparkle
the laughing way they looked at me

yet i have forgotten the colors
and only the painted ladies 
on steiner street remind me
of that morning 
looking for a place to lay a blanket 
in alamo square park

tolbert

A Drunken Journey

Drunk and kinda tipsy, I stumbled lost and
into the enticing embrace of a fair maiden.

She enchants me with her sensuality—
Oh, my total surrender is inevitable now.

Captivated by her luscious lips
Entangled in her aromatic tresses
I staggered across her twin jutting hills
through lush rolling meadow
past her passionate plateau
leading me down a ravine 
to her warm well of life
from which I drank to my heart’s content…

By and by, I came back to my senses.

THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY

THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY

There’s the prosecution with firm resolve
With a jutting chin, in that righteous pose
Poking accusations, seeking the conviction
And trying to expose all attempted fiction
But with that one last chance at the close
The facts, around which it should revolve

The defence, allowed just a little latitude
Offers reasons why police were mistaken
Upon such factors the case is dependent
And seeking sympathy for the defendant
Claiming that due diligence was forsaken
Open hands, an almost pleading attitude

Then the jury, some keen but others not
Expenses paid yet not covering lost wages
The judge is expecting our decision today
But we’re all still unconvinced, either way
And this trial has been going on for ages
Let us just say guilty with what we’ve got

Haunted Cemetery

The trails of fog like cold entrails
that wind and slither through the copse
which shiver at the touch and sops.
A chance at vision clearly fails.

Each jutting rock: a sentinel.
A greying headstone stands alone
against the tones of verdant cone.
My heartbeat sounds like a death knell.

A silver coffin bell from ditch.
As I am trying t’ place the hums;
direction clear from whence it comes
in variant beseeching pitch.

A hand that reaches up from grave
implores me for small change to buy
a warming nip of hooch as I
surrender will at being brave.

Cling

At the moor's edge
where the cliff-drop gnaws the wind
and a jutting ledge raises it hackles,
fingers scrabble, skinned toes curl
within stiff-jawed boots.

Turn an ankle here,
and you may fall
unleashed
to die somewhere
out of sight.

Do not enter your mind here
in that place
where a whipped dog cowers.

Cling,
rope yourself to the sky -
Growl.

The Beaten Track

A déjà vu?  What can I say?
I know the track so well.
It is so dark yet treacherous.
I am not afraid.  Careful, here is a curve,
it almost turns onto itself.
An old oak tree stands there,
just off the corner.  I can smell
its delicious odour or feel
its sturdy trunk, its cracked bark.
I hear the lower heavy branches
swinging slowly in the breeze.
 
Watch out, there's a ditch there,
dank water, that smells like drains.
And just before it a small jutting rock
that can easily help you tumble
into the murky stinking place.
 
Walk on, do not mind the dark
nor the screech of the nightly owl,
just mind where you step 
for the ground is quite treacherous here.
It's not far now.  Hear the dog
on guard, barking its warning.
Not to worry, it knows me all too well
although I cannot see it.
How can I?  I'm blind.

Cling

Head buried beneath the wind,
hung, grasping an overhang,
hug the thin bones of wiry tussocks.

At the moor's edge
where the cliff-drop, gnaws at the sky,
a jutting ledge raises it hackles,
fingers scrabble, skinned toes curl
within creaking jawed boots

Turn an ankle here,
and you may fall
unleashed
to die somewhere.

Cling!

Laugh at yourself.

Do not enter your mind,
where your whipped dog cowers.

Oceanic Encounters of a Pinching Kind

Swimming in the ocean
       a wincing couple pinches
     Little creature on my leg
       not more than six or seven inches
  
     I looked again, to my surprise
       Hello! - a trilobite!
     Two pincers jutting from its head
       tiny, fearsome sight

     I scolded it: 'You are extinct'
       'Now go away and I won't tell
     You'll get to live another day.' 

     He stayed... So, I swatted him
       to prehistoric hell ~
     THE STUPID ONE-CELL DUMBBELL

Mocking the Dead

Mocking the dead,

the vampire on the hill, high
above the cityscape. Why
does his cloak wrap around?
It moves with a hissing sound,
blackened on the outside,
blue on the molten graveside.
Sharpening incisors on the crag,

but

the villagers with their worn rags
tight fisted with their goodly lights -
those lanterns, infused with salt
of garlic, compelled forward in the dead
of night. Mockers and murderers, fed
by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread.

Hell,

the strangulation of fire, lava rolling
down the hill. Mocking, laughter -
the shivering of the old church rafters.
The reborn, new creation, settled
on roof-blowing praise. Nettled,
old Nick, the vampire king unsettled.

Mocking the dead,

making his own bed, jutting at jugulars,
darkening the atmosphere, drawing
congregants, unholy. But, someone holy
has his heels on the vampire’s head.
He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling.
The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.

Facing Myself

That’s not my face.

I open my mouth to see and- 

My tongue and lips morph with the slobber in my mouth.

My eyes, my eyes.

I have two eyes.

It is like, they are a different color, but maybe it’s just the light this time.

But the lights hurt so I want to turn them down a little bit.

Which helps with the morphing somehow.

Because I am distracted by the shadows.

And shadows aren’t real,

They are just the remnants of me. 

Those eyes, they are still on my face but jutting out.

Brighter than usual, 

But in the wrong spots on my face.

One up and one down.

And they move everywhere, and it makes me feel numb.

I’m still looking in the mirror.

But it’s time for bed, somehow.

In the morning, everything will be back to normal.

Maybe I will have a dream of me in the mirror.

To remind me of what I used to see.

Its Gleaming Light-Beams Washing My Old Soul

Its Gleaming Light-Beams Washing My Old Soul

So sad about some far-off hidden things
That are not my business, no not me
Washing these feet in such soothing hot springs
No not I, nosey as a damn ole busy bee!

Along the mountains, its jutting ridges
I walk admiring that fabulous star
Cross I the famous great seven bridges
This heart yet blinded wondering where we are!

Its gleaming light-beams washing my old soul
Saw evening as it slowly crept in
My worries stabbed me taking their deep toll
I a warrior but heavy are my sins!

There walked with majesty, the black-maned boar.
Snout rutting the ground, to find its next score!

Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Jan. 5th, 1979
Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; Today at 08:33 AM.

When Door Has No Curtain

A door we meet and expect curtain
“Door, where the Heavens is your Captain?”
Doors should not corners be cutting,
Out the secrets in a room jutting…

When your door parades not a curtain
The once hidden in your room certain:
A door that is at all times The  Jammed
A door at all times needlessly slammed…

And I say: The very idea dammed:
Who of The Sane has into rooms rammed?
Precious to us men the outside air
In the court sealing it off not fair
Behind a curtain one counts money
And one or two things do plain funny.

Curtain: The still vital to Drama
Final curtain ends actor’s grammar.

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