Not Enough RAM

By Jordanne Leigh, January 2022

Let me not to the marriage of thoughts divine

admit any impediment other than mine.

Rustling up old recitation, I will falter, not resign.

I am in here, this multi-track mind,

but a maze is what it’s become over time.

Wit or cleverness I hope to find.

Do you object to the misquotation of bards

Who, to be fair, made up those lines?

I grasp at straws and compost crafts

curiously cleaving into coherent halves

selfsame thoughts, dodging wicked self-traps

to find rhythm in disjointed words; fickle and fast.

To ruminate on the meaning of things like “past”

And “present”, and of “present” and “passed”.

to rediscover what’s been “lost” to time,

And re-remember that which should last.

If anything, I cannot relent

Until memory floods the fields of pretend

(soil posed to cultivate perennials in the end,

so long as I brave this maze to tend).

They say inspiration is a fair-weather friend.

Idiomatically intended; late winter may amend.

Though the yen for recitation has passed,

Tell me… do you have an ear to lend?


By Jordanne Leigh, January 2022

I’m feeling a bit

Out of synch as of late

I find my coffee cup empty

dollars down the drain.

The Athenic cat won’t catch my eye,

Anti-cheshire maw frowning wide

as I fill her filmy water bottle,

nearly office cooler size,

Empty already? I sigh.

I haven’t seen the moon phase across the open sky

In what feels like centuries out of time.

I’m feeling a bit

Out of synch these days

Pen to paper pierces the page

Ink floods the palm that feeds it

A print on my face (NFT, you might say)

As I rest my head in mottled hands

I feel all the weight of syncope,

silent e, and drift to dream.

Defunct libries of memry,

books with pages torn from spines

On drunken rampages through heated mind

With kindle versions on the horizon line

who has minutes to waste on the

inevitably fleeting physical tome of time

a reminder from the eye of mind?

I’m feeling a bit

Out of synch, as it were.

My voice won’t reach for the note I adore

My fingers twist to the sound of scorn.

A bar from the index pricks skin, bleeds

And my pic is hidden in the back pocket of jeans

I haven’t seen or worn since 2017

A flash in the pan for my flashback scenes

A moment captured by others (intended for me)

Flickers by in apple summary

To show me how I’ve played this life

in pixels and vectors and fractal imaging

Not quite so sharp as the knife in my heel,

digging, digging, digging—

Achilles, at last; I knew you would find me,

If I waited here, one hand cupped at the ear,

the other rapidly composing sweet melodies,

slow and wild, full of words we need to hear.

In the River Styx, against the current,

Borne back ceaselessly (year by year)

I find myself bold, and lose all fear.


By Jordanne Leigh, January 2022

Has it always been this way?

See now time’s inevitable decay.

Steeped in sepia, haunting these halls

stirring low shadows to rise on walls

of primary colors. This absence of light

turns the cheeriest rainbow to darkest of night

if only a lone bulb could yet shine bright

a smile in memory still blinding white,

it could all be alright, hope could be in sight

but the shadows…

please, I beg of you—


On Dreams

by Jordanne Leigh, August, 2021

I think,

"I'd like to bury myself

in piles of down and feather;

to slip beneath the silky tides,

devoid of inclement weather."

Yet as I fall

or float ( or fly ! )

Hand soft as supple leather

reach out to me with knots and ties

to fasten on a tether.

And so it was,

and so it is,

and so it shall always be

that though I search deep down inside,

some thoughts cannot be free.


by Jordanne Leigh, February 2015

Writing becomes so much harder

When people incessantly talk.

It would, doubtless, be easier

If all we could hear was the clock.

That persistent, ever-ticking

Rhythmic counter of passing time.

Nothing novel, just repeating–

Allowing a poet to rhyme.

New verses will come out swiftly

When given the silence to grow.

Go– cultivate soliloquies,

Or whatever big words you know.


by Jordanne Leigh, April 2015

Einstein and Nietzsche walk into a bar–

or do they?

Nothing’s wrong in that scenario.

Absolutely nothing is absolutely wrong.

But if nothing is absolute–

not everything, just nothing–

or both,

or neither?

Since nothing is confusing scientists and nihilists alike,

they decide, if nothing is certain,

they might as well get drunk.

So, Einstein and Nietzsche walk into a bar.


by Jordanne Leigh, November 2020

Like the cat

I cry out, hopefully in vain,

To those I want to see but not touch.

I rest a weary head on my pillow;

Whether it’s mine or not, I couldn’t possibly tell you

(the head or the pillow).

Occluded under the blanket of my own self-centered nature

I am free to explore behind my eyes

The world I claim as my own.

In isolation, I soar-

Until the string around my pinky finger pulls me down.

Or is it up?

Out from the ground, like I am a root vegetable

Unresponsive and rather unappreciated

Even at a Thanksgiving dinner.

The turkey was undercooked,

And we have to be thankful for food poisoning.

The family that vomits together—

You get the picture.

Or at least the outer edges of the puzzle.

Those are always the easiest to put together.

A guide, of sorts,

for the people who find sorting out the middle bits

a monotonous waste of time.

These are the same people who use redundancies

in sentences that they check- not once-

but twice.

I rest my case, if such a case

can be rested in any way at all.

Hills, an Abecedarian

by Jordanne Leigh, February 2015


broken people

carry their pasts

dutifully on their shoulders, heads, backs–

everywhere, really. They

feel the weight at all times,

going up and down endless

hills and ravines.

If they want to feel good–

just a little bit better– why can’t they

kill the pain?

Leave it behind?

Maybe it’s that if they let go of the past,

nothing will be holding them

on the Earth.

Perhaps the fear of the unknown

quiets the thoughts of freedom,

reigning the broken people back into

silence and subjugation. They’re bound

to their histories.

Understatements flood their


Weary from travel with such baggage,

XOs disappear from signatures, and the

years drain them dry.


News Cycle

by Jordanne Leigh, August 2020

Gentle nudge in the wrong direction

Push will always come to shove

Leave the bush to it's quiet burning

Eventually time will pass us all.

Slowly at first,

Then in the blink of an eye

The batting of a mink lash

Lips turning up at the corners

The creasing of a furrowed brow

Signs of imminent doom are not too concerning

But the fire—

The fire will consume us all.


by Jordanne Leigh, April 2015

It’s a

struggle, definitely–

Have you ever tried to

catch a fish on a hook without

a worm? I promise that it’s harder

than it looks. They mock you, the

fish do; They know what you want

from them and are determined to foil your

plan. Makes you question- if they’re so smart-

why fish bother with fishermen at all. When

worms are floating past them

in the sea,



attached to a string,

do they seem




I have often wondered

at this, and




the lucky ones

who get thrown




hop back

on the

familiar hook.


by Jordanne Leigh, March 2015

You do not seem to understand

My darling, dear–

My darling, hear

Me now.

I wish there was a way to say,

Through the static,

Through the noise,

Just how–

Just how I hate your guts right now.

The Void

by Jordanne Leigh, July 2020

Daylight always finds me in sorry repose,

faded colors in mottle memory.

Ribbons of light cut through the dust of my soul

and there, upon the feathered floor, my shadow sleeps;

I do not.

Emptiness is deceptively beautiful,

so look both ways before you cross the void.

Tension is all that holds you when I’m near.

Never again, my dear.

Never again, my dear.


by Jordanne Leigh, August 2020


Tremble when I resist.

It is a favor, really, truly—

Else I wallow and decay.

Point me in the right direction

Your arrow—

Straight and true.


if left in a quiver,

hope flows down river.

I will sit with myself

and resume.