Long Jotting Poems
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Overdosing (rather binge reading) thesaurus...
Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)
plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might kill
(reading every last word)
hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)
warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.
Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy
like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.
One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.
Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.
The more the world changes, the more it stays the same.
I was just telling my 2-year-old Dragon, this the other day.
Now I have a petulant Dragon, once I had a petulant child.
They might be very different, but they are both very wild.
I used to have a neighborhood coffee clutch, coffee, black, sugar, and milk.
Now its Starbucks for a mocha late espresso and it’s WiFi, or that ilk.
I used to be a chemist, jotting in my notebook of experiments every day.
Now, it’s a fancy computer playfully typing, while in Grandpa Troll’s lair.
The only difference I seem to find, as my arthritis begins to take hold…
Is that I’ve opened up a treasure Chest where I’m Merlin becoming bold.
Pearls of wisdom I now spout to a Dragon, as my mind begins to look around.
And some times he even listens… Naw! Remember he’s like my child!
And my 10-year-old black Lab is now laughing and talking directly to me.
My hubby lent me his Trolls, so I could begin to see the world, as it must be.
But, most of it’s seen in ‘time out’, across a lake from Dragon on the opposite shore.
We don’t see eye to eye very often, as Grandpa Troll, lays down the law, for sure.
Yes, my Treasure Chest is always over flowing now, with new and different things.
It seems Dragon likes to bring them home, while gliding in on his beautiful wings.
But he’s only 2 years old, and still needs a little motherly advice… like yesterday…
He found out my name isn’t Mama after all, and Dragon tears began to flood… all away.
So, I just cuddled him gently, as I told him my real name is, for the world’s whim.
But then, only one who shines so brightly, is allowed to call me Mama, just like him.
At that moment another pearl dropped into that over flowing, treasure chest of mine.
As Dragon keeps bringing a new way of life, filled with so much brilliant sunshine.
Happiness is a choice I’ve found, that suits me to a tea, and snippets from my Hubby…
Help keep the sunshine bubbling from that treasure chest, with my royal decree.
Still, as things keep changing around me, the more they seem to stay the same.
Now, I’m not writing only for my child, it’s toward other children… I aim.
Where does one begin to write,
away from the streets' nioses and children's screams,
forgetting those bouts of loneliness
that evade the inner peacefulness?
One starts with a pad, jotting down appealing ideas...
never having to fear they'll be lost.
I have a private place where I compose
a new poem, then read it aloud to myself;
such a place has a window that opens
to the brilliance of a blessed day,
and sunlight impinging, highlights its words
to amaze me of a would-be greatness.
After midnight I refuge to this quite corner,
when most people sleep and the luminiscent moon
projects her beams to enlighten my dreamy face,
I stare back at her and wave as I do with friends;
moon as eternal as unseen planets more colorful,
do you have the faintest idea why I indite?
Some write for fame, others to empty their souls of painful reasons,
or to glorify Heaven and love for their continous existence,
but invoking death instead of life is so detestable and inexcusable;
and from their voices I reckon the useslessness and torment...
may I never become like them, to burn hope in blazes of smoke,
watching its incineration until it turns into hot ashes!
I write out of an urge, which swells inside and needs to burst out,
leaving my psyche, to let it land on prude hands that welcome my gift,
until I pulsate with satisfaction, and purging those who show dissidence...
might raise questions for them who are easily aroused to anger;
I create more in quietitude....not being disturbed by airplanes' roars,
or trains speeding on tracks making all windows vibrate.
From the ancient to the modern poets, their intellect is stimulated
by urban or rustic sourroundings, and I have choosen them both in my writings,
and they manifest themselves glowingly, enticing this reason for existing;
open my pages and read all the passionate verses exciting the eye and pleasing the soul:
these are from the mind to the heart, a testimony of an enthustiastic life...
streaching out to every boundery and race, making everyone savor my delights.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
I used to write like
Jack Kerouac.
Words
crumbling down
paper.
Stark thoughts
marked
by dots
and dashes.
Flashes of schoolyard brilliance
The hill I would
climb over
to be
someone different.
I never saw life
through a dot.
LSD.
My father
was on mushrooms,
when he and my mother
created me.
Psychedelic sperm
meets
bitter weed
infested ovum.
BANGED
into existence.
Transient spirit
sloughing off
afterbirth long
after I hit
the cold.
I have chased
paper
ever since.
Dipping my bones
in ink.
To paint a
masterpiece
of you.
Broken, homeless, loveless,
privileged, safe, warm,
sheltered, shattered
reconstructed.
All in a backdrop
of perfection.
An abundant Earth
housing an
ungrateful patient.
Most of us,
doctored
unconscious
sedated.
Waiting for
something
to wake us
up.
My own words
often
broken and
falling off.
Leaving only
snapshots.
I get ties and
sketches
along the
road.
I would bargain
my dreams
for pious acceptance
and my revelations
for wicked
indulgent
self
flagellation.
I have been
bound to my
vision
of exclusion
behind an
iron fence of
history.
Trapped
in pages.
Tapped and
wasted.
I used to write
as if I didn't
I would die.
On my knees
shattered
under
that perfect
silent sky.
Head bowed
shoulders cowed
frail and pasty.
Screaming
raging
breaking pages
with my pen.
Attempting to bring
black and white
to color.
Now I write,
because
I die.
A thousand times
with you.
Its glorious!
Over your
unfinished portraits.
Your shortcuts
your detours
your ache
your lust,
and your mindless
wandering.
Beautiful
and championed.
I pray to make
my prose like
a Sistine Chapel
after all,
you deserve
it!
Only to fall
very far from
grace.
At the
Inadequacy
I have
at coloring
your face.
I used to write
like Jack Kerouac,
jotting a shot
of you
in between
heaven.
But I figured out
that I would
rather capture
my own
splinter.
And be satisfied with
a sliver of you,
than die like him
at forty-seven.
What is poetry, I must ask? Writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write, Hmmm, for my delight, or do I write from insight? Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can"t bring myself to hate it because I"m also captivated. You see, poetry is something very new, something I thought I would never do, yes I thought nothing of the kind, poetry never even crossed my mind. Until Rehad. I was jotting down stuff that was really drab, while in my mind I was repeating a phraise while giving The Lord praise. Then a voice I heard, "you can do much more with those words" I didn't have a clue of what I could do.
So I started to think, I started to strain but the more I strained the further away they became. I was completely baffled, it had stopped me cold, so I stopped trying and behold poem's started to unfold. Now the tide has turned, no more free ride it's time to learn, so some candles I must burn, like everything else poetry too, you must earn. Instead I duck, I dodge, I hide, thinking of anything to put them aside. With all the great poets how can I compete, I feel as though I'm already beat. So I get afraid and into the back ground I fade, trying my best to evade. But that's not the case for every morning I awake they are right back in my face. I'm thinking, this is not the norm, should I grab the bull by the horns. My head started to spin, thinking how do I begin.
And from out of my heart, following the other poets is a great place to start, in order to proceed you must not only write, you must also read and reading is showing me it takes special people to write poetry. Which also keeps me in check and for all you poets I have the utmost respect. So whether good or bad, I will nether smudge nor carry a grudge for I am not here to judge. I just want to be a part of these wonderful works of art. But Poetry, I wonder, what will I aquire and what will transpire? I guess I must travel the unknown but it's good to know, I don't walk alone. So I say again my friend. What Is Poetry, I Must Ask, Writing Poetry Can Be Quite A Task?
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.
Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.
Dr. Ram Mehta
==============================================
Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet
Google the world till you find me,
Draw closer; grip my heart and never let go,
Numerous moons have passed; countless suns have shone,
Yet my dream is curtailed,
I have unturned the blue; unzipped the stars looking for you,
Dug graves to uncover you; Uprooted trees to find clues,
Separated warm and cold air; to find the one I bleed; the one I breathe; the one I grief, the one I belief; the one I love,
I have befriended libraries to find your name; my love,
Given tokens to know the prophesy of your coming; my love,
A search that’s never ending until I find you; my future love,
I have roamed all over hell; to save your soul; my love,
Moved every corner of the earth; for the amender of my breath,
Tried bribing the archangel in heaven,
To certify to my heart that you are save and well; my love,
Just run a marathon in Daegu; for you who clutched my heart,
I can ran without shoes; but never without my strength,
Love I’ll die for you; as tomorrow means nothing without you,
Where are you at? Come swiftly seize my pressurized heart?
I know you can sense the soreness in my indoors,
Come cement my missing bits as you alone know how; my love,
Come devour me with glee; a beam that can never be expunged,
You know I need you; and that very true; my life; my love,
How can ‘I’ the Ferrari win a race without its tyres (you)?
I preserved every cell for you; ignored all love for you,
Don’t let me sting no more; I gave up everything for you,
When I confided in this love of ours; many pasted me a coward,
But my thoughts of you assisted me keep my sanity and purity,
My fluency with love rules made me patient,
Enough to wait for you the trance bloke of my centre; my love,
A love of tomorrow I preserve today and forever,
Soon my heart will dance and shout your name ‘ohh my love’
I treasure you my love; my tomorrow; my dream; my desire; my all; the one I have been waiting for all my life,
I sit here desperately jotting this jingle to you my love,
On tenterhooks it reaches you and remits you to me presently; my love.
Write Must I Penning the Praises of My Lord Accolades ---
~~Accolades to Robert Lindley~~
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Like the cool breeze blowing the leaves,
of a tree God gives me
I sing the words God gave me
Placed encased in angelic harmonies
I breathe the air oxygen God gives me
A living spirit moving
I say the words to the readers and listeners
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
A beauty from the soul
More than mere words
Accolade this wordsmith
Gallant passionate craft
I award you in eternal brotherhood
Continue to write those words write on
Hold the quill ever so still
Write until forever book is filled
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Penance unveil new brotherhood new friend
Even tho, we have never met your word forever in my heart
Write, Pen please don't never ever lay it down
Write the verses sonnet, sand poems
Continue my brother your not alone
Tis an honor to call you brother
Honor to read your verses, your words
That ribbed from your soul
Write must I penning the praises of my Lord
Jotting down the letters combine into words
I write the words that God give me
I wrote the words God gives me
Your honor is an merit of acknowledged merit
Praising God the words you share it
Soldier knighted in words of enlightenment
Privileged honor writer delighted my poetic friend writes lovely
Dedicated to Brother Robert Lindley
1/5/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019 ©
a Dedication to Brother Robert Lindley
Human, I am...
with a nagging existential curiosity
about people, nature, and life in general.
A spiritual being, I am...
I indulge in woolgatherings and strolls.
A poet, I am...
I'm always doing the cha-cha-cha with my muse.
I love to write; always jotting down
myriads of thoughts running through my head.
An eternal optimist, I am...
My cup overflows. I never drink from a cup,
half-empty.
A dove so peaceful, I am...
I'm often lost in meditation, in reverie.
Busy bee, I am...
You'll find me at work on weekdays doing the job
I enjoy, and doing it the best I know how!
A runner, I am...
I jog and sprint with friends. It clears the cobwebs in my mind!
Adventurous, I am...
I am on a perpetual search
for enlightenment and poetic inspiration.
A husband, I am...
I'm married to a precious, gorgeous lady named Helen.
An incorrigible romantic, I am...
Many of my love poems are about her.
A proud American son of Nigerian-born parents, I am
A brother, I am...
the second born of four siblings.
An older sister, a younger, a younger sister--last born.
Tall in stature, I am...
I'm 6 ft, 2.5 inches tall. I love being tall! Oh, yes indeed!
Fashion savvy, I am...
A sharp-dresser. Can't you tell from my avatar?
A quasi-masochist, I am...
I love achieving an end, the hard, gut-busting way!
A coconut, I am...
Despite a tough exterior, I'm quite tender on the inside!
Rather unique, I am...
half-loner, half-social animal. Full amazing brotha!
Creative, I am...
The inventor of a poetry form called "Yalto"
Bibliophile, I am...
A reader of books, poetry books especially.
Movie buff, I am...
When I'm not watching the news, I'm watching
a movie, which is every other day!
US Navy Veteran, I am...
Proudly served America.
Oh, I wish I could serve her all over again!
Date written and posted: 09/23/2018
January:
Journey into an another Era
with many aims still raw
begins with a Jaunty January
into a heart throbing journey.
February:
Flower in fine fields flow
into a stream and film of rows
It is the quite Freezy February
welcomes us with unique flowering.
March:
Mutely comes the month Marching
with many multiple matters
of music, It is the Melodious March
exactly a nice tune played mutely.
April:
Aspiring interest are adored
like a hill covered with lot of snowed
May the struggle rise it is Aiming April
If you miss to aim, then no aspiring.
May:
Metres high in the heat of feet
full of melons, mangoes and meat
definitely rare, its the Magic May
none other shower love in high metres.
June:
Jotting the dates that went
with the rest left for rent
Its the Juicy June
That’s, just to sip and jotting.
July:
Jaded with full of work
nothing there to wonder
As it is the fine Joyful July
a month with loads jaded.
August
Attention! you're in the mids
try to know the way it leads
surely it is lovely and a Attracting August
never to miss the way, have attention!!!
September:
Smooth and slow, free and low
like a pure stream with no blow
busy with songs of Singing September
lovely song birds utter sweet and smooth.
October:
Old is gold as goes a line
often with many memories fine
still all goes well in Oddless October
as the gold move the new and the old.
November:
Nature with all good and best
rest in a few places and others waste
As it's a Naughty November
changes everyone into a fine nature.
December:
Down the end comes the dues
with all the do's to be done in sue
as not to be away in Dreamy December
always to be correct though we come down.