Joli's Vampire Journal | Personal Entries

Joli's Journal

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7 entries this month

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Silhouettes And War Stories
03:10 Jul 28 2008
Times Read: 1,505

We are forever different for our storm,

For the people who didn't come

And finally, for those who did.

It is greener now, three years past.

People cry indoors

And grieve less openly.

The horizon of my whole life is a stranger to me.

Where regiments of tall pines kept watch,

But one battle-hardened sentry remains at post.

He has named himself Masai, heartening me

When I gasp awake and crouch in the night

Until my heart slows again beneath his gaze.

Limbs twisted and spare,

He seems more suited to an African plain,

A nomad rooted to the scarred earth here.

He breathes me calm again just by being there,

Reshaped, but standing - fellow warriors,

And we will see our way through this night, too.

COMMENTS

Irony
03:32 Jul 28 2008

As I said before, this poem to me breathes relief. I still cannot put my finger on why, but it puts across that feeling so powerfully. Thank you for sharing:)

DarkCthulhu
10:52 Jul 28 2008

"But one battle-hardened sentry remains at post." Simple and effective to my eye, steadfast and resolute. I may adopt this one Jo.

Angelus
17:14 Aug 03 2008

"..perect."

PRIVATE ENTRY
02:07 Jul 28 2008
Times Read: 1,514

• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •

Play of Will
23:43 Jul 20 2008
Times Read: 1,599

Your puppets come out to play

When words are scarce and scary things

Easier said in a funny voice

A scripted game of Keep Away.

Don't suffer my eyes your stage directions.

I applaud the costumes and your dark set,

Awed by the stagecraft, years perfecting your art

Of make believe and character reflections.

When you have delivered your last line,

And the house lights come up, we’re clearly mad.

The audience murmurs their way through doors,

Act 1 in earnest, and I crave you like tart lemon wine.

Meet me backstage where the curtains have strings,

And villains in black hats can wear paper wings.

COMMENTS

Ockham
23:51 Jul 20 2008

I've run out of adjectives,

Words that describe,

So to meet my objective,

I'll poetry scribe,

Your work is, as always,

The top of it's class,

And in my mind's hallways,

There's none who surpass,

Your words are well chosen,

Your flows work with ease,

But this comment's closin',

I beg, "Mercy, please!"

DarkCthulhu
00:01 Jul 21 2008

Awesome line: "Don't suffer my eyes your stage directions. "

Reminds me of something the Master Bard would write Jo. Nice.

Irony
00:02 Jul 21 2008

Umm..

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

This poem is awesome,

And you are too:)

There, I can't be outdone by Occam, that would never do!

(Seriously, I like this one, very shakespearian in parts)

Ockham
00:03 Jul 21 2008

Oh, it is on, girlfriend.

Angelus
00:20 Jul 21 2008

..must have been very special, to you.

Beastt17
09:00 Jul 21 2008

Again, completely new territory for your writing and you map it out like a master.

Don't you ever get sick of completely dominating all of the writing arts?

It's like if I wrote a program... well no; that's not a good example. Okay, it's like if I decided to try portrait photography and on my first attempt... that doesn't work either. My skills with a camera are sufficiently lacking in all realms...

I have it! It's like if I decided to enter a pro cycling race and... naw, that's even worse.

Okay, I don't do anything nearly as well as you write but you should try to leave at least one style of writing unmastered so the rest of us aren't left with nothing more than the hope of writing in your slipstream.

:-P

PRIVATE ENTRY
18:45 Jul 20 2008
Times Read: 1,625

• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •

Singing Snowden's Song
06:05 Jul 20 2008
Times Read: 1,668

I am here for me.

I have only ever lied to myself.

Don’t look down.

There’s the trouble -

My blind faith can see.

And you hang by your knees

From your fucked up plans,

Your frayed trapeze.

Christ, I’m scared and old.

I’m cold. I’m so damn cold.

Trembling the cracks

Where your madness pours forth.

I don’t have enough bandages

Never will be enough bandages,

And you’re spilling all over me.

"I'm cold,"

"I'm cold."

"There, there,"

"There, there."

COMMENTS

placidchaos
06:28 Jul 20 2008

Wow. I can really feel some frustration comin' from this one. I think this would make an awesom symphony rock song.

Ockham
06:29 Jul 20 2008

Beautiful, touching, saddening.

Irony
15:31 Jul 20 2008

This unnerves me, I am quite lost for words. This is a good comment, not a criticism, but I am really lost for words. I will probably be able to articulate them better later on:)

Fear
08:44 Jul 09 2008
Times Read: 1,789

You saw it coming from the corner of your eye

But you chose not to look,

The way you avoid your own reflection

Even when you see.

My white gown

My hair of lilac

The hum of a fan

The faraway window

Startled awake in the only dream you get to have

But yours is the scream unheard,

An implosion at your epicenter,

Clutching yourself like the lover you miss.

My last drop

My dark eyes

The smell of almond

The face in my window

COMMENTS

borked
09:24 Jul 09 2008

Got that one pegged: The pursuit of beauty and the struggle of life.

borked
09:29 Jul 09 2008

In my stash of trashy literature (most of which is printed on glossy pages has lots of pictures in pink and comes from the local gas station) is "Of human bondage," by Somerset Maugham. I think I might read that again after reading your poem.

Joli
09:42 Jul 09 2008

Hadn't thought of that book in years. I remember stealing it from my dad's bookshelf and reading it as a teenager.

Angelus
22:54 Jul 09 2008

I saw a ghost, I did.

BLOODLIFE
22:57 Jul 13 2008

I have a lot of catching up to do ... what a great way to start.

"A dream has power to poison sleep"
09:09 Jul 04 2008
Times Read: 1,861

When you leaned against the doorframe,

Everything about you was slightly askew,

As though, like an old fedora, the world wore you

Pulled down at the brim –

You, the sublime and rakish tilt to my life.

Even my photographs whisper to me

That you were a beautiful mistake

Which the Fates refused to receive,

More Errol Flynn than today could ever believe –

You, climbing a fountain to yell of love for me.

When you leaned against the doorframe,

You studied my form sprawled in a chair

Reading Dickens and puffing my cheeks just so

Dangling a sandal from my little toe –

You, once again out of step with time and me.

With you it was ice and sunbeams,

Always a sunbeam on you, swear to god.

You even smelled like sun, like a summer beach,

Ice cracking, tumbler of Chivas in reach –

You, with your hands exploring me instead.

When you leaned against the doorframe,

You seemed solid as the house, itself.

I lean there when I miss you, and I see

The world stands straighter, smelling like me –

Me, wanting you more than the air I breathe.

COMMENTS