Poetry By EmJay

Hype

2012-01-20T05:33:00.001-08:00

When the rational

became rationed

and fodder is now filler.

The worlds all hyped up

on something that calms you down.

Did you ever think

I meant to be that way?

Who, what, where, when and how?

2012-01-19T05:38:00.001-08:00

How do you steal back the sun

from greedy cloud grasps

or bottle a rainbow

for show?

and what button do you press

to record the tune in your head?

Upstream

2012-01-19T05:37:00.000-08:00

will paddle on.

and we,

will carry on forward

with

or against the tide.

and

when we feel

as if all is lost

we will make something

from nothing but ourselves.

P is for POETRY

2012-01-19T05:30:00.001-08:00

I have dedicated my body to words

starting with my fingers;

my fingernails and finger bones,

even my finger prints.

After that my wrists

and their tendons, my forearms

and elbows all swore oath.

My shoulders and my neck,

my head, my heart, and even my brain

have all chipped in,

some way or another

and in the same fashion

written all across the body’s care manual,

nothing works together

if something is out of place.

The season of giving (and taking)

2012-01-19T05:25:00.001-08:00

It is unbearably undark

in a sky filled with bright clouds

who fake an early dawn

while the moon is still a reflecting god

sitting high in the sky.

What should be black or blue

is just a palette of sickly hues,

bone gray and ashy yellow

radiating,

across silhouetted expanses

where stars once sat.

The season of giving

and taking

has a way of tricking time

day and night,

trying to make the hours forget the sunlight.

Weather now,

is stagnant

and unstoppable,

digging its heels in protest

at the changes of leaves and wind

blowing and billowing,

bringing everything to its knees.

10/1/2011

Sleep isn't for the night

2012-01-19T04:40:00.001-08:00

I lay awake at night

at all hours rehearsing

words over and over

until they beat a rhythm

in my head, staying there,

marching to their own tune,

a series of letters

confessions

always speaking the words

I won’t physically say

until one day

they beat too long,

too hard

and I wrote them down

fingers never as quick as my head,

getting ahead of itself.

My words are on paper

so finally they have stopped

their relentless weaving.

Now when I lay me down to sleep

I hear silence instead of a broken manifesto

regurgitating endlessly

until the words were smooth,

until they came rushing,

flooding in

wave after wave

until they were done

and dried themselves up.

A house is like a home

2012-01-19T04:26:00.001-08:00

Our bodies are houses… homes,

not just encapsulating shells.

Eyes are the top-room shutters,

keeping out, letting in the light for the man inside,

while our hearts are foyer doors,

hidden just past the exterior,

guarding a core.

This is a place of many footprints,

but few have the key to the lock.

Our hands, our kitchens, living rooms,

buzzing with hivelike activity,

the thing-in-front-of-your-nose,

center stage without all the spotlight.

The foot, however,

is most like a bedroom--

obvious, a little mysterious

an effective means of escape

keeping you grounded,

taking you away.

Have you looked to the moon recently?

2011-11-18T02:42:00.001-08:00

The clouds above my head

are the same ones surging over you,

lying in your bed.

It is the very same moon

burning bright in my window-sky

that you and I see,

as far away we may be.

We bunched together

then drifted apart

in the way of clouds, buffeted on the wind,

strung along.

Droplets upon droplets form until clouds are born,

deepening, darkening, spilling over until the sun

burns through, dissipating dark.

Can love be my sun and sizzle away the dark?

Or will time evaporate the film clinging between us?

The moon is always there,

even when it shines for someone else,

glowing even when hidden by the clouds.

I only need to look up,

knowing you have too.

Flesh, in all its glory

2011-09-06T03:36:00.001-07:00

Live, love, laugh.

Three things,

such a simple recipe for everything in life

when said aloud,

dictated or preached.

We practice them, every single day

or at least you and I,

above the ground.

Tell me, what makes you alive?

What monitor screams

THIS ONES LIVING?

Your heart does,

when it's pounding

when it's aching

when it's light

and even in fright.

What else does your heart do?

It loves, of course.

What is love?

Love is when your brain

is spelling out

I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E

and your heart is

frantically scribbling

Y-E-S.

Love is when your heart pounds

after seeing the same smile

fifteen years in a row.

Love is being able to laugh

at yourself.

What is laughter?

Laughter is

the cheapest,

most intoxicating

(addicting, even)

substance we’ve ever invented.

Nothing hurts your

stomach, cheeks,

eyes or sides

nor heals and mends

souls and friendships

relationships and moments

quite like

laughter.

Wilt

2011-09-06T01:35:00.001-07:00

My secrets are sticking to me,

bogging me down

left right and center,

sending me askew.

Little bricks stuck to my skin,

pulling me off-center.

No physical cleanse can remove this adhesive,

will truth set freedom loose,

or are these words going to be my noose?

When do staggering steps become cohesive?

When the steps become strides,

when without guilt,

you start feeling pride.

On truth this foundation must be built,

because I will not let this flower wilt.

Achilles Heel

2011-09-06T01:30:00.001-07:00

I've got a whole lot of words to say

ready and waiting

but they're not pretty, or packaged,

they are crudely lumped up

an awkward jumble

stuck in my throat

stuck in my head

stuck to my pen and not

quite making it to paper

I've spoken of the world to you

of its wonders, its terrors,

even its disgust,

all at length

all at ease

but this?

This is the peanut butter gluing my tongue;

my achilles heel is the very muscle I tenderly tone?

My very words?

Whether it be

you
or the words

I am afraid of, I'm not sure.

Either way,
I'm still left with telling you something you already know.

Refills are free

2011-07-17T18:21:00.000-07:00

I have bled out

every last injustice you left me the deed to,

I have sobbed out

every last cruel word

you imprinted on my memory,

and I have shed every last scab you gifted me.

My skin is shiny and new,

pink with scar tissue,

thick from you.

By the time I am done,

I will have opened myself up and poured you out,

and I will wait out these hollow times

until I have filled myself up again,

back to the brim,

until I overflow,

until all these things are joys instead of sorrow.

(Still) Awake

2011-05-05T03:54:00.000-07:00

Part II

(Still)

Awake.

as the sun seeps in.

Peeking. Prying.

Tendrils that seem weak,

a substance not completely there

grow stronger, thicker.

It took seemingly moments

for the darkest blue-black stain

to fade, melt down

to a translucent blue.

Routine transition

has made me uneasy.

Have I created a head start for the day,

Or am I very, very behind?

Awake

2011-05-05T03:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve been up all night again

so my mind has yet to sleep

as the sun is peeking in;

Pale, weak tendrils growing thicker,

stronger by the minute, hour

seeping in like ink,

a substance not completely there.

The morning hours seem utopian

in their transition --

In what seemed like moments the

blackest dark melted

liquefied and lightened,

and lost all its opacity.

Shedding its coat, the sky

remaining undecided

on its final hue

clocks in another completed routine.

Within the infinite chase

of sun and moon

we find shadows of humanity;

Light follows dark

ever and always

in equal measure.

Floundering

2010-12-29T03:31:00.000-08:00

Floundering beneath a wave

of something I’ve yet to put a name to,

I am trapped,

caught in a dizzying dance

so hypnotic to watch;

Breaking the surface,

freedoms first gasp is

confinements last laugh

when I’m pulled back under

tied to and with

the flotsam and jetsam

lurking below.

Even words

2010-12-06T01:31:00.001-08:00

Even words can become all too familiar.

Favourite storybook words carouselling around your brain,

read so many times that they’ve lost their distinction,

their flavour.

You dove in, head first,

recklessness embodied

if not for the fact that you have taken the plunge before,

and every inch has once before been swept

with your eyes and your hands.

Sing-song lines and lyrics are sounding monotonous,

making you plough through their rhymes and rhythms

like chores.

Like chores?

Since when has the poets palate been bland to the ears,

a flat line in emotion?

What are you supposed to do

when the verses you sink yourself into so regularly

won’t hold you up any more?

Words are the faithful lovers,

however quarrelsome they may be;

Words are the burning little suns in the minds horizon,

bursting into flame then dying out-- always reborn.

Words are the sweet lips you grow tired of kissing

without a first kiss.

Matches to ashes

2010-12-03T14:05:00.000-08:00

Have you ever played with fire

just to hide behind a wall of smoke?

What is it about dangerous things

that hide the most vulnerable?

Ever noticed,

When you run your fingers through candle flame

You half hope to God

something will go wrong.

Is it because you want to pull away,

wanting the sudden flash of fight or flight?

Or does the wound serve the ego?

A story to tell and a sick thrill of victory, to boot.

Maybe its our need to play God with ourselves.

Do we create chaos

just to have the power

to control everything and walk away?

Sort of like throwing the match

exactly where you want it;

the starting point with the most potential,

then stepping away

when the smoke and alarms turn

the spotlights in a different direction.

Maybe our fire, smoke and chaos

is humanities chance at designing something of a legacy;

Fuelled into life by its insatiable appetite for destruction

and instilled with less than no moral guides.

A legacy that can only burn itself out.

Foul vowel.

2010-09-29T02:11:00.000-07:00

It’s a vise

around my throat, hot and cold,

a burning without any of the heat.

Constricting,

I think its travelling down

my chest and into my lungs

around my ribs and straight down

into my belly, rolling its greasy fingers

along my insides

feeling for the weakest spot,

and infecting the rest.

So cold it hurts,

but we already know its not really cold.

It’s not really anything,

for no prescription or bought remedy, nor sought

or traded medicine,

could touch what decides to afflict me.

Because how can you cure the letters

of a name? How can you stop

vowels sinking into your blood

winding their way up to your brain,

and clutching relentlessly?

Flawed, cracked.

2010-09-29T02:00:00.000-07:00

Cracks and flaws are ugly things,

but often ignored is the fact

that lines make up the most beautiful pictures of all.

They are the everlasting footprints of movement

that, when examined with enough detail,

are exquisite maps

tracing the best and worst of the things that sit inside our souls.

We use maps to carefully select where we are going,

and often forget

that maps are also amazing at showing us exactly

where we have been,

and how that,

and not some map book,

is what really tells us where we’re going.

Two rocks and a hard place

2010-09-29T01:59:00.000-07:00

What to do,

when you’re in a room
and words can’t march on out

like they usually do
because

you’re stuck between

two rocks and a hard place;

Everyone’s staring you

dead in the eye

because you know them and

they know you.

So, do what do you say

when you don’t know whose

line to cross first,

or at all

and all the nitty, gritty details

in between?

It's like talking with a

tongue covered in glue,

words all pasty and thick,

as fast as molasses, too.

I’m cornered and I’m quick,

hasty in speech.

I don’t want to look,

I don’t want to believe,

and if I try hard enough,

it's all in the corner of my eye.

Tea.

2010-08-03T05:58:00.001-07:00

Maybe tea is an accurate representation

of the human heart.

Maybe I’m just crazy.

Water

clear, glossy and pure

is foundation and stepping stone

all in one.

You can drink it alone, warm or cold

or infuse it, colour it, add to it,

but you can never take away what it started out as.

In the process of brewing,

you’ve got to bring water to a boil;

get things simmering, shake it up a bit,

get the ball roiling, if you get me.

Then you add in the catalyst,

a bag of leaves.

Now watch.

Clear water all shook up

from the heat of the moment

being addled with the colours of fall

reds and browns, orangey tinges leaking

into the water spindly arms weave around, grasping for hold.

Finally, the clear is not so clear,

it has evolved into something so much more.

A beautiful brew has emerged,

ready to delight the senses with its warmth, its spice,

but you forgot about it.

You left the kettle on the back burner,

it slipped your mind.

You can come back for it all you want

but it’s a wasted opportunity;

you left the leaves in,

so now it’s cold, dark and

bitter.

You lost track of time, and now it’s useless,

wasted resources sitting in stalemate.

So you throw it out, and you resent yourself

if only for five minutes. Why did you make a pot of tea,

when you could have made a cup?

Created dishes, wasted water, used the last of the milk

drained a bag of leaves for all its worth,

expended energy for no reason.

Excess work

because you were thirsty.

What does this remind you of?

Once upon a time

you stole an extra minute glancing at the boy

and your all-too-new heart stuttered,

bubbled and boiled,

like the water in your tea.

You bubbled and boiled,

the heart on fire.

Then the catalyst dropped,

the boy sort of knew

(only sort of)

and you didn’t want him to.

(only sort of)

that’s when the tendrils snaked around

sweetening and spicing everything up.

The colour of conversation changed dramatically

from light to dark the longer you kept your mouth shut.

Its been a few months now,

everything under wraps and only now do you look,

and all you can find

is the bitter brew you’ve stewed.

You should have opened your mouth

before this.

But you didn’t

and now your tea is

bitter and cold,

palatable, but unsavoury.

Like tea,

there isn’t a lot you can’t fix

with patience and (sugar) sweetness.

So pour in your sweet side

and see what happens.

Iced tea, anyone?

Said and done

2010-07-25T00:35:00.001-07:00

After all is said and done

will you think to yourself

was it worth its weight in gold?

Often repeated,

my favourite phrase; never regret

something that made you smile.

Well, don’t.

Don’t you believe in the reasons

behind what drive these mistakes?

After all,

you were always living in the moment,

minute.

Living spree, so carefree!

The kind of care that turns into

careless-- with the things,

the things around, surrounding you.

But.

With everything said and done

what do I think to myself?

No regrets, just the useless decay

of useful tears time and love.

There is no room for waste anymore,

so I won’t waste another word

for they are priceless;

what we put into the atmosphere

is irretrievable,

unchanging.

Are band-aides big enough?

2010-05-30T18:22:00.000-07:00

It’s a bit past spring

spring cleaning that is,

and I’m sweeping;

Sweeping up, sweeping away

every last vestige

of you.

And oh god, it hurts.

Did you know

how much it hurt

when you left?

You were my scab,

as bad as that sounds.

You were thick and tough,

and you clung to my skin

keeping in the bleeding,

hiding my wounds.

And too soon, too soon,

you ripped yourself off and

away you fluttered,

slowly at first

because I could still see you,

and then

out of sight you fell,

gone in the wind.

So I grew a new scab,

it blossomed where you left off,

and as time went on

your voice faded from my mind

and a shiny layer of scar tissue

is all I’ve got left of where you used to be.

Never expect, less than FIERCE.

2010-05-16T01:17:00.000-07:00

You have no idea of

how brutal I want to be;

feed you the pain you dealt me,

send shock waves up and down your body.

Hopefully they’ll reach your brain and

electrify you

maybe make you start to think again.

I want to ravage my sanity

break loose

like the noose you had wrapped

right ‘round my neck,

your security blanket if I ever got too close.

My fingers are in fists and
oh how I want to hit you

break your bones and your face

A physical painting of every time

you grabbed my heart and squeezed

and layered bruises over your old ones.

I want to be vicious,

and toy with your pain, play with it,

like you played with my head...

sending me farther and farther down to the ground,

where I never belonged.

It was always you, who rose above the squalor,

mistaking the necks of those around you

as a stairway to your heaven.

Your throne was risen to the clouds

on the backs of men and women,

raising you much higher than

you could have ever gotten on your own.

You are the thorn in my side

that has crippled me from day one,

and I alone rejoice, for you have been dislodged,

discarded and useless,

for the day has risen

and without you,

I stand tall and proud,

finally

unhindered.

Image to ash

2010-04-30T22:11:00.001-07:00

Page by page,

I'll go through our book,

of memories, of lies, of a happier time.

Each picture is another one I have to pry up,

examine and burn.

Gently I’ll turn our pages,

letting my fingers walk down memory lane,

A path obscured by taped corners,

stickers and phrases once defining our days.

Our images are what’s left of us

A moment frozen eternally

capturing every grain the lens could see.

A prismatic tableaux detailing a table of contents

spanning a relationship still indefinable by mere words.

My memories won’t follow suit with the actions of the physical world,

Your images in ashes around me, are still in my head

but maybe, maybe, time will blow them away

like the wind has taken away your ashes, already.