The Poetry

Hush

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.



Nothing

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.



Offset

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


All

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

veins.

Weary from travel with such baggage,

XOs disappear from signatures, and the

years drain them dry.

Zap.



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.


Fishing

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,

rather

obviously

attached to a string,

do they seem

so

very

appetizing?

I have often wondered

at this, and

even

moreso

at

the lucky ones

who get thrown

back–

only

to

hop back

on the

familiar hook.



Sugarcoat

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.


Play/Pause

by Jordanne Leigh, August 2020


Notch.

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.

But

if left in a quiver,

hope flows down river.

I will sit with myself

and resume.