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Jiril Clemons Poem
I could care less about the four
corners of insults,
That intelligence invites;
It is always the first straw of
grass that’s grows,
which reveals the popular outcast;
As a youth, I found my image cut down
into this manufactured silhouette.
Drenched in social rain, my peers
had never found me more alienated,
Then when I spoke fluently of diverse
topics;
They did everything in their power to provide
a verbal umbrella,
However, the texture remains weak and
defeated.
This stormy parade that remains’ dripping is
indeed an afterthought,
For within this cranial mansion resides
additional rooms,
For the more abstract and surreal
elements of life;
It is that secluded gland which reveals
the renaissance of men, who wear
infinite Fedoras.
Now wearing the shoes of a young
man,
A taste of charisma resides in my
veins;
However this slight addiction to external
haze,
Comes in second to my first drug of
choice: Wisdom.
Membership into this fraternity may take a lifetime;
So don’t be surprised when resistance
knocks at your door,
Intimidated by the lion that dwells within
your temple;
Indeed intellect is the misunderstood
fruit,
That blossoms sweeter when accepted.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
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Jiril Clemons Poem
“H” represents the humility she
displayed from the moment she
opened her eyes;
“E” would suggest a revision of
evolution,
Because it would take many stories and
infinite lifetimes to explain the beauty
of her essence;
And “R” would ask for a human replica
of her,
For many men should admire such as I
do.
Modern Shakespeare’s should pay
close attention,
For her personality writes poetry
itself,
And yet the pen remains in my
hand,
To describe beauty in third person.
My cold and nonchalant heart has never
asked for another summer to warm up too,
Unless purposeful reasons for an appeal of the
heart were discovered,
And yes!
These reasons always spelt out
her name.
As in life which contains both success
and failure,
I’ll risk it all, in hope’s for mutual
affection;
I’d serenade time if it meant I could
spend more in her serenity;
Forget the ridicule and episodes of embarrassment,
The only thing on television tonight is the
heartfelt expression of a peacock,
Waiting to display his romantic feathers to the
archetype woman;
Today and forever;
I’ll dedicate to her.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
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Jiril Clemons Poem
In this field of plantation;
Where I walk and plant various
parts of myself around this
world;
I sometimes look back and notice
the trail;
I recognize the lettuce of charity
I’ve grown constantly through the
years,
the tomatoes of kindness which
resonates red to the world,
For as the blood flows within my
temple,
Kindness will always be found
here;
Also my celery of respect remains
long,
And continues growing as much as I
do;
And yet for all these positive elements
I’ve learned to express to my
environment;
Occasionally I plant a bad seed which
poison’s the essence of my entire
being;
And for that, I apologize.
Although a perfectionist in small doses I
am not perfect,
And as a result my garden of Eden
contains more infamous fruit then I
would want,
Stemming from lack of growth in my
maturity plant;
While a few of any negative offspring
have cultivated,
None have been more consistent in growth
than my deception seed.
Unfortunately as I’ve grown into
adulthood,
So has my subconscious lying,
Sadly after a while you don’t even
realize that it still sleeps in your
field,
And as a human constantly harvesting
you learn to accept it;
However evolution never grows
old,
And even a perfect saint contains a
lifetime of imperfect downfalls,
So while I’m familiar with deception,
It is those virtuous seeds that grow
within me,
That are parallel with my height
and with that, I’m content.
God never asked for our field to be
perfect,
But to show progression,
So that it could display many of lives
lessons,
And as my life continues adding up,
I can promise the world that my
dark seeds subtract simultaneously;
But yet I understand we’re all human,
And we must reap what we
sow,
Therefore I’m hoping that my seeds of
empowerment in the form of black eyed
peas, fall into my neighbors field,
Thereby enriching their lives for yet another
season.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
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Jiril Clemons Poem
Step 1:
Inhale an envious mask upon your castrated
skull,
and prompt this necessary illusion to commence.
Bathe yourself in ego-filled waters till you feel superior
to the gavel, and exit without caution from this perfect
prison called home.
The audience of youthful flattery awaits you, and those
who you hunt,
Anticipate your roar, and contemplate a permanent
departure.
Step 2:
Masquerade around the elementary wheels of
transportation, and make sure your crown has no opposition.
Be seated in the rear levels of mischief, and target those
who sit angelically, in frontal silence.
Remember to grin until your devilish smile has a
pathological glow,
And act without tears, your greatest show without
showing.
Step 3:
Be ignorant to punctual chimes that sing, and lean on
absent temptation for comfort.
Show patience for the perfectly weak; allow them their
steps upon the wax floors,
Give them their fairy tale of safety.
For they are dreamers, and you are their scheduled
nightmare.
Step 4:
Enter classrooms initially through the minds of prey.
Let them introduce the beast without forethought,
Observe their careful whispers among the intellectual
flock,
And standby till their guard sleeps.
Lastly, steal the eyes of misery from your contemporaries
as you walk in, and sit among the walls of miseducation.
For knowledge is not the vocation you seek.
Only the beauty of suffering can compensate your lust.
Step 5:
Begin by insulting the eager minds that roam
brilliantly in the front row.
Shout high praises from hell, belittle their flawless
answers,
And bear no breaks of mercy until tears fall.
Now shift your heinous gears toward the everlasting
prom queen, your unrequited distraction.
She does not lean towards you, therefore you must
harm her pedestal as well.
Do not hesitate to disarm this glow that will never
infiltrate your surroundings.
Step 6:
Confirm that your motions are approved, by the
council of expulsion,
And give them infamous leeway to imitate in your
rare absence.
Step 7:
Reminisce joyfully over sin that will never turn pure,
as you return home.
Remove the wool from your eyes, and follow sorrow
till it wants no hint of you any longer,
A similar thought entertained by parents you forever
know.
Lastly, if you urge beyond repair, and accept that the
sheep you threaten everyday will never turn,
Despite your purpose,
Then feel free to act as those that previously harmed,
And contemplate a permanent departure.
May god bless these faithful carriers of misery.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2014
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Jiril Clemons Poem
Yesterday sent its regards in a farewell
letter,
A gesture of fate intact, sealed for the
departed,
Or better yet, the progressive harmonies
of God, such as we are.
It was perhaps the plot of the universe,
When we slept in yesterday’s hands,
And I asked you the question of
continuation,
In hopes of fading away mutually, after one
last bloom.
Heaven must have spied on my everlasting
request,
Because with your pearl vision directed
towards me,
And your soft veil of ebony near me,
You agreed, with no hold of hesitation.
So under the chapel’s protection is where
we coast now,
And a road less traveled is scattered with
our footprints;
While I did lead with company, along this aisle
of anticipation,
The stares of 1000 miles did not present themselves,
Until your walk was introduced, thereby polishing
this floor into glory.
As I stood in the patience of joy, a distance was
illustrated between us,
You pressed forward and this negative space lost
its existence;
As you approached with the tranquil touch of
summer,
My nerves fell sober, and I knew that which was
parallel before me was art,
The speechless beauty, I favored in sight.
The preacher spoke a traditional verse, as our
eyes locked in perfect reflection;
Declared through spoken word, was the
confirmation of our ribbon in the sky,
Crowned upon your precious finger was the
weight of symbolism,
Silently glowing through the everglades;
With no restriction, we explored the middle
ground in unison.
We exited through the heart of the sun, cherishing
the unfamiliar heat;
It appears that life’s divine notary has signed off
on the greatest equation ever solved,
May our souls forever write in this blessed ink.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
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Jiril Clemons Poem
How rare, how innate this journey
manifests to be, the foreshadowing
of a loners blessing.
That intuitive thought to travel
with when my third eye seems blemished.
A mannequin of myself hidden in
longevity, that has yet to spoil.
I sometimes allow thoughts to slip
away from this safe haven,
thereby welcoming consequences,
consequences only an amateur
would allow.
In this game of similar links,
I’m quickly reminded of a presence
bestowed upon me.
Those allies illustrated for battle.
Only a true soldier could retrace these
portraits, heavy pages of uncertainty that we failed
to erase. I’m grateful however, of the genuine flame it
ignited.
We defeated the irrelevant
hazing, and found the blueprint for
camaraderie.
A groundwork for future war scars discovered
in our spirit. Overtime we prayed, and
received that undaunted
scent.
Still, perhaps in this physical scene,
There lies too much symmetry for this
parallel vision.
Some fade away as a result,
anticipating a reunion in higher
dimensions.
But as this masterpiece continues to illuminate,
I praise God for this muse called friendship.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2017
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Jiril Clemons Poem
Seconds:
If there was a second I didn't think about you
God himself would have to point it out
Because this sample of heaven is 24/7
As the minutes tick on since you been gone
I sit and think on all the things I did wrong
Every second I ask myself two things: why and where
why didn't I realize what I had harmed
and where for the club, I was there instead of with you in my arms
Minutes:
For every minute I spent with you I remembered
like when we first met in September
The minutes that we slow danced together
Are energies collided and warmed my heart despite the cold weather
Every minute with you I was on cloud nine
There was no question, I was yours and you were mine
It was through those minutes, sixty-seconds was expanded
With you it gave the affection I had so long demanded
Hours:
I will dedicate the hours to what is present
For it is through the hours of thinking that I learned my lesson
The hours since we've been apart
They have pushed and pulled on my heart
Through the hours I remember what once was
How this simple lust could have been love
For every hour, my lips mouth the four syllables of your name
Even if time froze, I would still do the same
Money can't compare to what love can bring in a lifetime
Who wants to be a millionaire?
I was once one, but I didn't need three lifelines
All I needed was you to see me through
My rough days and longest nights
With you, darkness came to the light
In conclusion, to every second, minute, and hour I write to, Know that I still think of you.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
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Jiril Clemons Poem
I would deny its existence and favor the second place
prediction of Tuesday;
For the beginning is never subtle, and it tends to hunt
my off-beat verse.
Such a consistent verse, as it never sits on time but
rather abandons efforts to erect my sight, and coordinate
the following hours;
The morning is fractured as a result, with recovery
trailing on the heels of Monday much later.
Perfect souls may interpret this honesty, as weak
exaggerations of the first 24 pages of this week;
Yet I preach on; as these sentiments are not falsified.
Proof is present in the early missteps of the corporate clock;
Slipping on the familiar concrete that knows me better, I
can sense the mojo in brief retirement from these works
of mine.
And of course, there becomes the peers to impart misery;
obvious is the choice of day in current motion for this
conflict, perhaps too abrasive for Sunday’s mouth,
and too eager to rest on Tuesdays lap. Still, there must
be a critique of the deadlines that lose my attention, the
method of effort undeserving of the title, and of course, their
desires in opinion that extend to the hand that writes
the checks.
But then again, occasional Mondays, comes to misplace
the common structure, such as this petty one.
The blunt melody of this soundtrack played on till lunch,
and by then, the issue of nourishment had exited;
There I followed.
I assumed the particular way this day choose to
spread could not influence any longer, once the
afternoon was mine.
And yet, disagreement waited outside to shower
me with the precipitation of wrong guesses.
There I stood in the creators tears, bathing in the
mutiny of chance, entitled negativity.
But then a turning stone became present, and the
shower showed itself to be brief, and I found
myself witnessing the drought of misery
departing.
Perhaps my sentiments didn’t unveil the blueprint
of today correctly. Maybe the riddle cased in these
24 hours reminds mortals that existing on fertile is
a promise of tears and smiles, harmony and dysfunction.
To expect a token of more or less would be devious.
The mere shell of a Monday is irrelevant to the
framework are diverse templates choose to be in,
when dawn comes to visit us.
A thought revises in me now.
If Monday were truly a sin, I would advance in fault
and carry the unknown weight time and time again;
For the challenge of life has its pleasure, and its
aftertaste, assembled from the reminiscent images
is flawless. To speak of struggle that passed away its
tense is forever the compliment of living.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2015
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Jiril Clemons Poem
I feen for the calm, docile placed fire,
The ex in extra before an exit starts,
The urge to add dark, sultry desires,
An encore for vibrant, unsettled hearts.
I yearn for a jury’s continuance,
The exposed touch of Eve’s verbs repeated,
the safe flow of spirits, live tenderness,
I’m jealous of the crave undefeated.
But there is no end kept at this doorstep,
There is only the feint death of memory,
and while we may write love, and then forget,
We are the melted cry of symmetry.
Now there is unfamiliar morning that seeks,
And passion on hold, for dual minds to keep.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2016
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Jiril Clemons Poem
Lupita…forgive me,
For I would never sin from these
lips,
Such words that would spoil the beauty
of your existence;
But if you requested such a crime, I’d argue
for remnants of your time,
And charm you as my fatal audience.
Of these things I would cite verbally,
Would be the origin of shape, gifted upon
your figure,
Those curves that gave birth to the unpredictable
patterns of life,
Swaying the adoration of midnight flesh, into these
new testaments of woman.
How simply intoxicating is this craving?
To bear witness to chocolate unspoiled, as it lay
peacefully naked over maker’s canvas;
Let it not melt away, before millions can sample its
sensuous glow.
Perhaps art can be reborn from such stillness,
While wasted labels could fade into retirement,
Convincing the almighty to revise the structure of
Eve,
And acknowledge this last miracle…Lupita.
What else could be molded from this paradise, but a
Queen’s thoughts and motives?
If there is nothing but truth in this crime, then I’ve painted
the solitude of heaven, perfectly.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2014
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