Unfixed Poems

The Poetry of the Broken

My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.

My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.

Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.

I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.

My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.

Political Platform

Pillars built on words,
Seeking votes with grand designs,
Offing yet unfixed.

©bfa042325

I Dwell In Halo Clouds

I choose to dwell in frothy clouds…
with a mindset unfixed
Random instincts   spaced out 
In the cumulus mix
An expansive effusion
Far out and beyond my temporal shackles
Free are my thoughts without prompt
Closed minds shallow and 
desolate debacles
dissipate in this airy romp

On wispy clouds I dwell in…
high above I’ve risen
Here no need to reason
nor the blends of interpretation
Far away, so far from you, ascended 
From the fiery pit below
which awaits my return
Where blazing saddles shame my name
where gross gossip lives and 
bloody rumors stain, 
Ablaze are the blame games

I dwell in cirrus pillows…
The scoped hemispheric 
veils, bands and billows
Musings— using me

I chose to dwell in halo clouds
My mind with no refrains
Nothing to lose nothing to gain
A spirit free from hate 
Soley my mind
Opens heaven’s gate
 

SPILLEGE SPOIL SYBER SIST-- Vogon Unofficial Anthem Poetry

SPILLEGE SPOIL SYBER SIST-- Vogon Unofficial Anthem Poetry


Infused intensity of immense ignorant
Boils of blast feme burbling
Crackle and gilling clump coils
Of filament retardants…..coverings

Egos frost bitten frozen bumps
Cabbage patch dolls provocateur
Running ruins caveating wretch
Worldly scum virgate arresting…..whose

Developing deepen darts of daze
Daring divorced deities
Spillage spoil syber sist
Rope gatherings of responsive reeps…..what?

Tweet twik ti tork
Tweet twik ti tork
Tork twik ti Tweet
Wailing walls worship waters sung-songs

Of open offensives offerings
Spillage spoil syber sist
Vested virtues very vast
Undermining unfixed unumerously…..anthem

Spillage spoil syber sist


1/17/25
For Vogon Poetry Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sotto Poet 

How Do You Feel

How many feelings get cooked in this urn of mine?
Do I count them? Does each one have a unique sign?
In the ocean of my heart like drops they get mixed,
Like gentle and wild waves break day and night unfixed...!

The charm of people's smiles mingled with the sun's rays,
The thrills they shower like drizzles of monsoon days; 
The warmth of joy I feel in each bloom's aroma;
The vinous lure of an honest heart's love-soma...!

Curvy curiosity of companionship,
Fear of falling from the cliffs of love, losing grip;
Clinging to the spirit-uplifting tender times,
Pleasant, as though, sensory-buds-teasing wind-chimes…!

Anger and shame and contempt and distress and guilt,
All packed within, like compressed cotton in a quilt...!
Each, together, like coal rolls in fire ablaze,
Physique and psyche, as though perplexed pandas, gaze...!

When, lo, many true selves yearn to show their faces,
But fail midst complexities of cut-throat-races; 
This is, hence, when someone asks me: 'How do you feel?'
I move, as an unattached mechanical wheel...!!!


23 January 2023
How Do You Feel Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose

The Mess

The break, the broke, the all unfixed, the reckless, the hopeless, the demons stand play, restless nights an it’s just another day! The stress overbearing with dreams at all cost, feel hopeless an at a stand still lost, mind games, people fake, the fumes of life i over take. The burning bridges id say I could never cross always finds its way to clear path, calculations of my life looking like algebra math, life’s game gets me each an every time, I manipulate myself to say it’s all fine, I pray, I kneel, I give it all to god, but why the devil still plays he gets me at all odds, mistakes made daily cause I like to choose hard ways, the demons stand over us cause they believe we’re it’s preys, lies spoken to not hurt feelings, babies an kids in foster but the government living on billions, heart ache is real an hurts like hell, reach the top of the stars but the I love you was just tails, real is rare, life is unfair, not many will truly care, this life is ruthless an truth is what I’ll share.

Be Yourself

Caring for others
Listening to others 
Seeking their attention
Valuing their opinions 
All these are good
But when they grew
To the extent of 
Caring less for you
Careless for yourself, rather,
You should feel you are out of track.
You become their opinion.
Their thought
Their mouthpiece
Their nonsensical mirror!
How long this should go on?
How long should you become 
A stranger to your very self
A refugee to your own house
Come back to your self
Come stay with you the person
Neighbors can feed you
Hug you; caress you;
They cannot just fix you.
Your being fixed with you
Or remaining unfixed 
Depends on your self-fixing...!


21 July 2022

In My Spiel and Storied Telling

Desiccated mice thus far do gnaw shreds of scant regret.
Good and bad love, honey-dew in a salty brew.

In my closet, pockets unpack pockets,
bags billow under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls turn to cry 
their mournful ‘why’s’, more kitchen towels
to mop tear stained flops.

One horror story lives on, much chewed over
by skeletal moths.
Pots of peeled moonlight inhabited creaking lungs,
their beams slowing curdling.
I still store a few pickled smiles for saucy women.

In my book of lies there are half-truths worth more distorting,
fields plowed over far too long,
fallow earth where the dead are uncovered 
only to dance again on the graves of the long entrenched.

Those drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
great works that now slack and dodder, sent unfixed 
back to the soured whirlpools from which they sprang.

Yet here I am, this spark in a potash of smuts 
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic beings hover
to grab up my rash stash of tawdry self;
and I say:
Yes let them come, and god help these,
my patched and paltry wings.

I Love Being Hot

We did not have air conditioning when I was a child
I spent my time outdoors in the summer,
browning like a cinnamon roll
I loved it!

We have air conditioning now, but I drive my car without it
I prefer to have the windows open
Until the temperature gets to ninety-five
Or I am on a loud freeway.

I am the only person I know who can sit in the sun eight hours
Wearing long-sleeved tops and blue jeans.
The others run inside, screaming for water.
I stay put, wallowing in the sunshine like a joyful unfixed tom cat.

The Shapeshifter

I am you, or are you me?
Are we truly who we’re meant to be?

Seemingly fluid, so unfixed
The facets defining, so intermixed

On the sweetest day in June
I am the Lilly you watch bloom

In the deep cold dead of winter
You are the darkness driven splinter

I shift my shape and you shift yours
We set off once again into the moors

But are you me? Or am I you?
It has always been just us two

You cannot see without my eyes
I cannot exist without your lies

I am blossoms, you are decay
I love you more than I’ll convey

We dance together wild and free
But am I you or are you me?

Our time together has no limit
Our bond, cosmically infinite

And as the ever-wandering drifter
We are one as the Shapeshifter

-J.A.

Unfixed

Your memories bring tears to my eyes
Eyes that once saw beauty and love to be
To be us in your eyes died
Died long before I met you

Today I Am Querulous

Today I am
querulous
my foot taps a rhythmless tattoo
my fingers roam unfulfilled

this bolus of undetermined want
slides down my throat, 
invertebrate,
lodging in my stomach

dull, 
as a faint scratching on a prison wall, 
carving out the days

heavy,
as a stone unquarried and uncut, 
the sculptor indecisive, reluctant to take up his chisel

some indeterminate 
unfixed need
slithers, struggles for expression
through restive eyes

Burden

A load of unfixed weight,
We ourselves sum up or rate,
Sometimes pegging it to a kilogram,
Under lesser stress to a gram; 
Either a chosen or entrusted role:
Office with files taller than a pole …

Going ahead to father another baby
Which one must not skip in budgets not the lady 
Plus Grand Pa long roaming The Earth,
Not wanting to end a Methuselah Birth!

More burden fixing back enemies’ sandals 
Than fending off neighborhood vandals,
A gown releasing to a hated sister 
Than a dozen to an outsider, a mister;
A lingered chat having with the proud 
Than one’s way elbowing though a crowd!

The Mind Forgets

The heart expects promise 
 Disappointment awaits the frail  
 The mind forgets 
 
Born to learn love, quick to forget that others feel the same 
Internal battles, unseen desires wishing to be unveiled 
The heart expects promise 
 
Childlike envisioning of a possible flame 
In another world that prevails 
The mind forgets 
 
Unnoticed help, unfixed blame 
Friends, friends, friendship run off the rails 
The heart expects promise 
 
Unanswered, awaited, sought after, misnamed 
No one listens to the dreams of the young 
The mind forgets 
 
Who remembers my name 
You, her, over there, pale 
The heart expects promise 
The mind forgets

The Insomniac's City

and where the step from road to pavement mirror the staircase, carpeted,
the roundabouts, abandoned at night, are those stools by his kitchen island –

and how the park, grassy clumps covered in silent dew, reflects his garden patch in concrete,
the flashing sign of an underground, rumbling, sparks similarly to that faulty living room bulb –

and within the litter blowing in midnight sighs, its his clothing, bedding, tossed in sleepless irritation,
the in hissing of a pipe, a cool water drip onto hot metal, he hears the plop of a tap left unfixed – 

and when shop keepers open their shutters, as the market stalls stretch and yawn,
he feels his own eyelids droop, rusted and propped apart with knuts and bolts for the day to come

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