Poetry Blog by Joyti

Scraps,

in snapping traps.

Snapping traps,

to catch the scraps.

Oh what wonders beyond the teeth,

that flights of fancy devour beneath. 

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TRANSITION AIN'T TRANSMISSION

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The sea drank the stars and belched out whales which propelled themselves into earths orbit to swim in deeper darker oceans than had ever existed.

Out there in the folded time of space beyond our tiny minds are gods who’ve lost all faith and hope, praying to their creations to rescue them.

And men withdraw to smaller spaces in search of meaning, tearing the pages from books and ren...

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I’m only young

and am not very good at adding up

but I know how to take away

and what it is

and what it means

Maths is in the afternoon

I’m very hungry then

my gut is small and tight

my concentration gets rumbled

My brain is not yet developed

but my memory is really sharp

I will need that in future

I’ll remember my mums tears

First they took th...

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there is a constellation that spells gods name

its inverted in a blind cornea

like looking in a mirror

back-to-front

inside out and upside down

the furthest thing from the Sun

the maximum space between razor blade and face

there is a sea-horse with a bar-code on its tiny wings

it hasn't been discovered yet

it will prove the existence of him one day

but for n...

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Three Saviour’s meet in a bar,

escaping the multitudes of disciples harassing them

they order drinks.

Leaving disheveled and worse the wear

hours later,

each is arrested for urinating in the street.

Samples are duly collected,

primarily because these important figures are of public interest,

and justice must be seen to be done.

A miracle is declared a...

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PewDiePie

safe in his androgynous Brighton mews,

had a humorous idea

his punchline was the Jews.

He made fifteen million dollars 

by being an utter twat,

adored by sheepish followers

can you imaging that?

I’d take his unbent nose

and melting pot mentality,

I’d break his fucking toes

until he surrendered to reality.

I’d rub his stupid face

in th...

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A guy walked in the room

a poet of sorts

self appointed.

The Pope of words

un-anointed.

A wealth of life experience

his library card well marked,

travelled worldly kingdoms

but never quite embarked.

I hit him with a chair

which provoked in him a stammer,

now his poems are much better

though he struggles with the grammar.

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Here, 

we come disgorging waste

our loves, our past

our lack of taste.

Categorised and clear defined,

they’ll take it all,

to ease our mind.

Cast off all clawing memories

that chain us now,

but once did please.

Photographs,

a treasured toy 

that once did give

unbridled joy.

As evening falls

and gates are closed,

the bins are empti...

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Life 

a coiled rope 

on a quayside

with no sign of the boat

A tyre mark

outside a house

with no sign of a car

Life

escapes us

signs remain

as beautiful

as they are

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Your,

PhD

out-brains me

Tits and thighs

out-lay me

Mum and Dad

out-pay me

Elocution

out-say’s me

My,

Determination

scares you

Confrontation

dares you

Dazzling wit

impairs you

I’d 

crush you if I cared to

But I don't

so won't

All life

is strife

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Black ink black made mood

seasonally adjusted by pen

of poets and men

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An Arab spring quelled

a sun obscured by uncapped wells

no castles in sand

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Anti freeze dispersing

the engines pistons pump with ease

colder falls the snow 

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Corn fields harvest high

Robert Johnson no Devils

The Blues never born

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Sistine chapel blocks sun

and sets the world renewed afire

chiropractor required

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Lamb springs gastric hopes

when the blue belled grass grows lush

then comes the tabled mint

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Kwai Chang Caine pied piper

the Hollywood studio rats did lure

an eastern sun arose 

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Annulled by seasons lack

Haikus discipline impeached

the silent moon a poet

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Cold rises through flesh 

heroine warms trembling grip

dragons await fire 

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Early tides greet summer

sails inhale fresh sunny air

beds left be-salted

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Fog reflects walkers

in mist they approach themselves

weather forecast dull

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Winters feudal blade

has the carpet scarlet laid

honour fully bound 

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Some extol

poetry

all knowitry.

Most writ

from wit

be it dull

or sharp,

the pen

the foil 

to angels harp.

Chords may jar

as often not,

to profess or hide

the tellers lot.

From out or in

and source unknown,

hearts and minds

have masters grown,

and through their tortured pens

did flow

Nothing yet, we do not know.

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