Not Enough RAMBy 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?
Synch 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.
Yore 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 Dreamsby Jordanne Leigh, August, 2021
"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.
Hushby 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.
Nothingby 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–
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.
Offsetby 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-
I rest my case, if such a case
can be rested in any way at all.
Hills, an Abecedarianby Jordanne Leigh, February 2015
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 Cycleby 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.
Fishingby Jordanne Leigh, April 2015
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
Sugarcoatby Jordanne Leigh, March 2015
You do not seem to understand
My darling, dear–
My darling, hear
I wish there was a way to say,
Through the static,
Through the noise,
Just how I hate your guts right now.
The Voidby 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.
Play/Pauseby 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
Straight and true.
if left in a quiver,
hope flows down river.
I will sit with myself