~ the musing's of mr. bones ~

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

  • ‘the untitled chronicles ~ no. 140’

     

    hello old day,

    from the closing of the eyelash

    against the pangful cheek,

    testaments of unrest fill the sky

    and waft forward into stale nostrils

    who hang lifeless from the chapped face.

     

    oh when will hard realities morph beautiful

    when timeless ties to past ill fall silent-

    to prick ourselves awake

    with these cold shards of yesterday’s woe,

    and stare hopeful…into another day unrealized.

     

    jonathan j ames

Thursday, June 12, 2008

  • The Eagle

    The Eagle wasn't always the Eagle.  The Eagle, before he became the Eagle, was Yucatangee, the Talker.  Yucatangee talked and talked.  It talked so much it heard only itself.  Not the river, not the wind, not even the Wolf.  The Raven came and said "The Wolf is hungry.  If you stop talking, you'll hear him. The wind too.  And when you hear the wind, you'll fly."  And became its nature, the Eagle. 

    The Eagle soared, and its flight said all it needed to say.  

     

    If birds could talk they wouldn't be able to fly, words are heavy...like stones.  They weigh you down.

     

    The Raven
    A long time ago, the Raven looked down from the sky and saw that the people of the world were living in darkness. The ball of light was kept hidden
    by a selfish old chief. So the Raven turned himself into a spruce needle, and floated on the river where the chief's daughter came for water. She
    drank the spruce needle. She became pregnant and gave birth to a boy, who was the Raven in disguise. The baby cried and cried until the chief gave
    him the ball of light to play with. As soon as he had the light, the Raven turned back into himself. The Raven carried the light into the sky. From
    then on, we no longer lived in darkness.
     
    The Warrior
    There was a warrior who had a fine stallion.  Everyone said how lucky he was to have such a horse.  "Maybe" he said.  One day the stallion ran
    off.  The people said the warrior was unlucky.  "Maybe" he said.  The next day the stallion returned, leading a string of fine ponies.  The people said
    it was very lucky.  "Maybe" the warrior said.  Later, the warrior's son was thrown from one of the ponies and broke his leg.  The people said it was
    unlucky.  "Maybe" the warrior said.  The next week, the chief lead a war party against another tribe. Many young men were killed.  But, because of
    his broken leg, the warrior's son was left behind, and so was spared.
     
    Death
    Death, like the white man, wasn't happy in his own land. He didn't think his kingdom was big enough. He wanted more. One night, when the good
    spirit was asleep, Death attacked the world. He killed a lot of people, and he took the Chief's prettiest daughter as his bride. She pretended to be a
    good wife, but one day she secretly fed him a pumpkin seed. The pumpkin grew and grew inside death. Finally, he exploded, and a million 
    pumpkin seeds covered the earth.  A lot of people died, but a good thing came out of it, too.  Pumpkins.  It's the same with white people. They
    cleared the forest, they dug up the land, and they gave us the flu. But they also brought power tools and penicillin and 
    Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

  • ‘anthems’

     

    to sit beside the anthem,

    where waters rough split the rock

    and halve them into submission.

     

    hassle turned the serpent spent,

    another rung in this ladder of woe,

    oh to where we flow…a quietus repose.

     

    into another anthem

     

    love-locked our twisted flesh,

    bruised with bye-bye beautifuls

    which pierce the rolled back eye.

     

    still split between the real,

    unable yet to feel the feel

    in this world falling down.

     

    jonathan j ames

Thursday, June 05, 2008

  • ‘standing time again’

     

    if only i could go, still the tenors flow

    into picture poison sounds

    who mingle with blurred shapes, beneath a melted snow.

     

    how does one purify the tragedy,

    a pain beyond measuring-

     

    to wish for the clockwork gear to slow,

    then we could truly know

    here while lost, in our little patch of white.

     

    jonathan j ames

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

  • ‘your beautiful’

    don’t talk,

    my ears cannot hear your lip.

    for my river runs loud and red

    with all my hearted hurt.

     

    you,

    you brought something beautiful

    into my ugly world, but i tore

    your eye and forced dryness to cry.

     

    more pains for burdens

    so willing to feel yours and mine,

    still i fight myself out of control

    as i try to fill it.

     

    but it can never be filled,

    so soon the final sound,

    as my last breath screams angry

    …i was ever born.

     

    jonathan j ames

     

Thursday, May 29, 2008

  •  

     

    ‘tidbits from the bedside ~ no. 06 ~’

     

                        ~ once beautiful ~

     

     it’s hard to talk, when only shadows listen

                                   

          the  m o s t  of the least, a ‘use-to-be’  memory of home…

    beautiful once came in a small package,               

                                                but i wasn’t there  to  receive   it ~

    Y e a r s   p a s s,   yet  nothing lasts,                                          

                 when the   o n l y   o-n-e-s  who’ll     listen,    are the shadows    

     

     

                              ~ jja ~

     

     

     recycled

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

  • i've come to an obvious realization today... that the only thing better than a 3 day weekend, would be a 4 day one~ jack

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

  • ‘tongue-tied’

     

    can you hear it,

    familiar with the voice which seeps from

    the cankerous mouth,

    seared with communication casualties

    here on the edge of tumble.

     

    and i in silence spent

     

    oh when will the laughable sounds

    merge with tearful anticipations,

    for heartstrings snap

    at the thought of such sorrow,

    deep cut into willing flesh.

     

    still the violin-smiles frown on

     

    left here withered in the know,

    a childhood burning bright

    charred and discarded

    we move in a tempo of finality,

    on the eve of tomorrow’s face.

     

    jonathan j ames

Thursday, April 10, 2008

  •  

    ‘the untitled chronicles ~ no. 139’

     

    to see further into the want,

    a say-no-more reflection inside.

     

    paper-cut lips upon the twisted face,

    which screw up into a smarting smile.

     

    such sacrifice in the now realm,

    still trapped in the killing-jar of the day.

     

    jonathan j ames

     

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

  •  

    ‘save me’

     

    once,

    when all was quiet

    and the wind silked through whisper wails,

    i stood alone.

     

    closed mouth 

    wrapped in memory,

    i felt shadow licks upon my nape

    and heard the snap of buckling bone.

     

    no more the man,

    in reflective sparkles who lie to the eye

    and create absence in the wake

    of a once-full  mind.

     

    on the cusp of end

    i step silent into unknown futures,

    still surrounded by the wind whisper wails

    who echo, the unfamiliar.

     

    jonathan j ames

     

Saturday, April 05, 2008

  •  

    ‘translating silence’

    malformed joy,

    a contorted meander through

    your war with fate.

     

    a poetic interlude

    with ridiculed umbrellas,

    drenched in a watery repose

    dispiriting the head-hung into yester.

     

    surrounded in a blithely faith

    written with a pen soaked in sinful inks,

    who blot out the word and streaks the letter

    into an unsingable canticle for the deaf.

     

    and all of this offered up to voiceless God,

    who smites the man

    with the look of an ever-blinding eye.

     

    jonathan j ames

     

Friday, April 04, 2008

  •  

    ‘an acquaintance of now’

     

    no wonder grey sky curtains

    drape without form,

    'bout skeletal bodies

    who’ve lost their will, to fill

    the fickle gown.

     

    broken wing-ed butterfly

    flightless upon the rock,

    as lying tongues flock above

    and smite the goodly proctor,

    'cross the brow of now.

     

    no more the faulted one

    this wanderer of the black,

    while backwood ballads

    sow the sorrow-song, we wait

    in silence still…for the gown to finally fill.

     

    jonathan j ames

     

Monday, February 18, 2008

  •  

    ‘sunday sorrows'

     

    to suffer well this world…

    my remember mind,

    such strange love

    stripped bare, in front of the old house.

     

    empty arms a feltless kiss,

    when love was torn from within

    caught, in the killing jar of the day.

     

    one look the shattered soul,

    as a faithless touch tower burns,

    i stillness stand amongst tattered dreams…

    the fall is fast upon me.

     

    jonathan j ames

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jackisarockstar

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About Me

  • art is the queen of all sciences ~ leonardo da vinci

Pulse

~ put it in quotes ~ (16)

  • jackisarockstar
    truly great madness cannot be achieved without significant intelligence ~ henrik takkenan
  • Danth
    Everyone is off in the eyes of those who are on... And nobody knows what they are talking about, when someone else is sure they are wrong.  Dan Tharp
    • Posted 1/13/2008 8:41 PM
    • by Danth
  • ravensgift
    oooops, ok so I am blond. I just realized your chatboard was for quotes and I just left you a message that was not a quote.... yikes
  • ravensgift
    I love your stuff.... Please write more often!
  • NormallyInsane
    “A dream you dream together is reality.” ~John Lennon
  • llibra
    Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
    • Posted 12/9/2007 11:40 AM
    • by llibra
  • llibra
    Actualities seem to float in a wider sea of possibilities from out of which they were chosen; and somewhere, indeterminism says, such possibilities exist, and form part of the truth. - William James
    • Posted 11/30/2007 1:50 PM
    • by llibra
  • jackisarockstar
    'a poem is never finished, only abandoned' ~ paul valery ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ and a special thank you for llibra, for making me aware of this quote ~ jack
  • NateVelker
    One of the best things to come out of the home computer revolution could be the general and widespread understanding of how severely limited logic really is. - Frank Herbert
  • NormallyInsane
    You're very welcome. Here's a quote I borrowed from Ehlfarri's comment: "...I contend that we are both atheists. I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why i dismiss yours." Stephen F. Roberts I just l
  • jackisarockstar
    political correctness, is tyranny with manners ~ charlton heston
  • SitaStrangling
    No more words... Hear only the voice inside. -Rumi
  • NormallyInsane
    "May The Force Be With You" ~Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars
  • papercup_alibi
    Bad people are punished by society's law, and good people are punished by Murphy's law, so I don't try to be either.
  • jackisarockstar
    Don't flatter yourself that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. The nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, which are rare, leave your friend to learn unpleasant things from his ene
  • jackisarockstar
    battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you ~ friedrich nietzsche ~