JD Roland (poet rebellious)

The Seed

2012-01-17T19:13:00.000-07:00

Life was thin and breakable,
as I recall,
those days of immortality,
under optimism’s dangling branch.

The gathering at City Park on
lazy afternoons, consecrated eddies
of overstated philosophers, criminal
renegades, and misguided loyalty.

The ghosts of a troubled past
gnawed at my self-inflicted radiance,
coercing my over-ripened pride
and self-indulgent reprimand.

Aldus Huxley and Southern Comfort
my impervious barricade, buttons laced
with strychnine, tequila to bite back the
aftertaste and zigzag horizons,

I marched against a failing wind and
was met by iron bars, I loved my
land in betrayal, a paradox laced in
cold steel decapitating my pride.

Life was thin and breakable,
as I recall,
to gain acceptance undoubtedly
meant compliance, still, my shell
slowly became overcrowded.

Years had passed before I could
gather up once again and fight
for right, yet I fear I am stained
for eternity, a seed lost forever.

©2009/jdr

If I Were John Milton

2011-12-17T20:42:00.000-07:00

"He who reigns within himself and rules passion,
desire, and fear is more than a king."
John Milton

If I Were John Milton

If I were John Milton;
I would embrace opportunity
with extreme passion.

Dedicate my life amid faults
of monarchs and reticent
freedom.

I would sharpen my axe to grind
with razor wit and stoic resolve.

If I meet his eminent stature,
I would shatter the chains of
disillusionment wrought on by
17^th century Island madness.

I would travel abroad to the
Continent, engaging Italy and
Spain, they applauded my
verse written to their confusion.

I would dedicate my stay to
refinement of far reaching designs,
all the while writing endless verse,
pros, and revolutionary appeal.

I would witness a mad King’s execution,
a new reality for an abused nation.

Another step closer to sanity, the
light of my world diminishing, caused
by a compassion to write,
unwilling,...no the inability,
to live another reality.

If passion blinds, I would have been the first
embrace and the last unfinished story.

“if I were John Milton”

©2010/jdr

The Butter Knife

2011-12-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

A somewhat curious utensil,
spreading butter efficiently,
the versatile butter knife,
remarkable unto itself.

A finely crafted tool,
for all things condiment,
thinly veiled mustard,
on your burger masterpiece

I relish the taste of a ballpark frank,
so expertly laden with a mix of alien preparations.

Dig deep the creamy peanut butter,
surely more than is needed,
dress your toast,
your cracker,
your finely carved celery stick

But oh,
you argue with alacrity,
everyone’s aware,
these common usages,
hardly a reason for wasted page.

But let us dissect this miracle further.

A screw driver of undaunted proportion,
a pry bar,
to the task of ruination,
a press for the pill,
too large to swallow,
a scraper to remove substances,
long since spilled.

I could go on and on……and on,
but you captured my drift,
such a finely tuned apparatus,
yet so simplistic in nature,
honed from time memoriam.
a reflection of ingenuity,
in sterling silver flatware.

Looking Back

2011-09-18T21:46:00.001-06:00

Your eyes look thru me,
cold blue steel,
valor driven,
streaming our history.

Respect,
smoking gun,
shattered glass against
tomorrow, the promise of
parlor room disconnect.

Leapfrogging over shattered
apologies and overindulgence,
like swirls of mortar within our
liquid pools of confidence.

What do you see,
on the other side of me,
you reek of indifference,
what’s in it for me?

Perhaps a trinket from the
guilty, the cruel intentioned,
the masquerade, the guilty party,
looking back.

©2011/jdr

Moment

2011-08-19T21:02:00.003-06:00

Marla perked up like a snowbird,
greeting the vast horizon with intent
contemplating her surroundings
setting her sights on possibility.

She slowly moved, unwillingly,
to procrastination, deeper into
her unfolding defiance.

If you need me, I am her,
she thought,
as if she held a choice.

I am a world unto myself,
repeated in her close put ambivalence.

Even the tree etched bark reminded
the woodpecker of her duties.

Again her thoughts turned to accomplishment,
as the snow turned a flaming orange.

“I ‘m a slow moving concurrence.”
announcing out loud, over
her distain for acceptance.

If I fail,
I fail for all the right reasons.

I refuse to be a pillow to
rest your insecurity.

She slowly turned to face her
target, buried in downy comforter,
so full of misunderstanding,
so buried in denial.

©2011/jdr

Triangulate

2011-08-04T20:57:00.000-06:00

I am not a poet that suffers for
his art, rather a poet suffering,
because of his art.

I tried the role of gin-soaked
martyr spouting injustice,
banging away on the keys
with nicotine stained digits,
pissing on cardboard walls.

I was once inspired by the likes
of Keats, Dylan, Eliot, verse so
dynamic you could smell the
eucalyptus.

Then there is love, the longing of,
the back and forth transcendence from,
the wishing for, and …… the regretting,
soul-searching, manipulating, attenuating.

These are my boundaries, laid out like
a pyramid.

Tempest (poor Jodie Rain)

2011-07-17T08:15:00.001-06:00

I met her on the back city streets
of middle America, for surely, all
contain her likeness,
mingling among the uncaring.

Her messenger, seems now,
a blustery ghost,
with fall now upon us,
I can’t help but reach back,
across opaque colors of brutal winter.

~

I paused if for a moment,
engaged by the display of a
small boutique, noticing my
translucent reflection.

It started hardly more than an audible
annoyance,

clickity, clack, clackity, click,

a coming of saint or sinner,
only time held such revelations.

Streetlights danced across
a chromium cage,
unmistakable bars of a miss-gotten
shopping cart.

clickity, clack, clackity, click,

steadily depleting our personal
space between.

She stalled before me,
with jack-o-lantern grin,
filth encrusted hoodie,
pale skin and grey meshed
dreadlocks.

With breathy repetition,
she propelled her message with
well intentioned fervor, rightly,
holding me transfixed.

“Regent’s stain, manifested heart,
enemies redemption fails in the dark,
what climbs up slowly slithers down,
Lazy Susan turns round and round”

Icy chills gnawed deep my spine,
knees buckled, heart’s race,
breath a vaporous lingering mist.

“this foretelling panders darker days”

her final farewell, slowly disappearing
into life’s dark abyss,

clickity, clack, clackity, click.

As I turned, once more, to my faded
reflection, I couldn’t help but surmise,
we are all subjects of our paranoia, guilt,
greed, and………..disillusionment.

©2008/jdr

Sanctuary (not a love poem)

2011-07-07T22:44:00.002-06:00

If you believe in sunshine
as I believe in rain,
we could walk together
halfway in-between.

You must believe in lightning
for I’m a thunderous man.
enhancing all our well intensions,
if you’ll take my hand.

Can you find our differences
appealing to your mood,
or am I incandescent,
a fool to fall too soon.

Are our paths so different
that well intention's lost,
within your grace I’ll find a place,
caught upon your pause.

I place my thought upon you,
outside this pristine flaw,
await your drifting judgment
of passions unresolved.

Do you feel the ripple
that travels down your tide
or is my sanctuary just
a place where we may hide.

©2011/jdr

Beat the Dust

2011-07-07T05:32:00.001-06:00

Please check out two of my poems on Beat the Dust http://www.beatthedust.com/beat-the-dust.asp. This excellent Lit-zine is worth a visit and all our support. Enjoy and join. Support the independence of small press literature. thank you all for your support. - jdr

Questions

2011-07-05T19:36:00.000-06:00

when you say freedom,
what do you mean,
freedom to walk the streets?
freedom to live with pride?
freedom to feed your family?
freedom to belong?

when you say free,
what comes to mind,
free to judge others?
free to take a life?
free to destroy?
free to rob the human spirit?

when you say success,
by what yardstick,
is it personal?
is it pride in others?
is it a pinnacle or plateau?
is it at the expense of others?

when you say love,
what do you see,
do you see color?
do you see ideology?
do you see a healthy child?
do you see a safe world?

or…..

do you see nothing and
say even less?

©2011/jdr

I Thought of You Today

2011-06-26T12:15:00.000-06:00

I thought of you today,
before sunrise,
my moment after slumber,
before day’s challenge,
my time,
where I live truest,
bound to solitude.

There was nothing tied to it,
like it meant to have meaning,
no,
not like that at all,
it wasn’t experiences shared,

I didn’t think about conversations,
agreed or opposed,
no,
I didn’t think what our friendship meant,
I know it seems unusual,
why not friendship,
why not our bond?

it wasn’t that at all.

It was you,
just you,
as you are,
who you are,
nothing more,
the simplest of truths,
you,
stripped of all history,
admiration,
judgment,
guilt,
reward.

A moment so pure,
as to say,
I shall never know loneliness
or how it must feel stranded in desert,
it was you, wrapped in your purity.

© 2009/jdr

Red Dirt Road

2011-06-16T23:02:00.001-06:00

Rise up,copious wind,
heated powder gathers,
ghostly mirages - diffused,
pasted over days..

Metal chariot stranded,
alone to abandonment,
slowly succumbing, like
bleached out parchment.

Crimson devils congregate,
defiant to any influence,
defenses gather in response,
tattered coattails swirl.

Tightly knotted bandana,
masking worn determination,
filtering the honesty,
widened brim billow’s rejection.

Staggered progress’s burn,
track’s instant acclaim pixilated,
a waning, unrealized by destination,
erasing any measured gain.

Dancing specter, shifting sidewinder,
rend his finely etched intention,
one in front of the last,
understanding, of course,
escape lies - just…beyond this red-dirt road.

She

2011-06-03T23:59:00.000-06:00

it’s the way she owns her body,
her style so self-prepared, the
confidence of her breasts, the
rim of her lips, inviting competition.

mistaken for elitist demure, she waits
her turn, her single word carries
the weight of small talk or destroys
the judgment of others, like striking
a matchstick.

she holds no interest in outside frailties,
though her skin makes clouds blush,
she sings a language only honesty hears,
in her lonely integrity-she waits, patiently,
only to transgress her lot in life.
© 2011/jdr

untitled #1

2011-06-03T20:00:00.000-06:00

she sits in silence beneath chandelier
acclaim, counting on odds and ends
to see her through endless days and
short blurbs of slumber.

again and again she thumbs through
her ups and downs, an exercise in futility,
disseminated across wall photos, uncle
Jack staring back with smoke-stained
grin and yellowing eyes.

her grand canyon excursion with Sol,
her Jewish affair ending in a diatribe
of false clichés, bitter rivals, and
nefarious allegations.

group gatherings misted over by
time ravaged memory, who was the
kid in scruffy coveralls and devious
eye, the Wilmington Farm, where
she was raised and goaded upon.

the kettle faint but noticeable, she grips
the arms of her dining chair, hoisting
her independence, she adjusts her shawl
according to her upbringing……….
tbc...........
jdr

Painted Blue

2011-05-29T14:39:00.001-06:00

A crumpled swatch in their desperate fist,
this is our color, shouting, over and again,
shouting, we are selfish indigo, we feel constant,
not of any moment, full bodied brew,
like unfurled waves on tarnished shore.

They see sad eyes, rumpled skin, rutted road,
blinded in sunshine, underrated moon glow,
desperate despair, looking past foreboding places,
back alleys, soup kitchens, 4 a.m. subways,
tear soaked children clutching collateral vengeance
and sugar infested treats..

We can mend their broken smile, their hasty judgment,
the scorn they wear on every walkway, ours is
tranquility over mended heart, with a spot of green
leaf and sage, our color, our shade, our purpose,
steeped in heritage then - painted blue.

© 2010/jdr

The Lighthouse Keeper

2011-05-18T19:18:00.000-06:00

The sea is calm amid the dawn,
he stands on island’s shore,
solitude surrounds his life,
he chose so long ago.

A guardian, a steward,
a man among men,
his reach is far and wide
never making feigned excuses
for a life given up to the tide.

He’s steadfast and true,
I’ll wager you,
I think you will agree,
he draws upon the sea for strength,
as stout as an old oak tree.

Mary Tom did steal his heart,
both knew she would not stay,
so he writes to her on Mondays,
kisses her picture every day.

She takes the trip once in the fall,
another in the spring,
she cooks for him in apron fair
and wears his college ring.

He’s strapped in tight,
with all his might,
like the sails of the Tuskadoon,
there’ll bury him on rocky shores,
‘neath the beams of a sailors moon.

So if you have a mind to think,
he doesn’t amount to a thing,
the ships that pass his stony tower,
honor him when foghorns sing.

Clutter Bug

2011-05-17T00:34:00.000-06:00

It’s so much easier to collect
than throw away, from - I’ll
need this someday, to - I paid
for this, refusing to admit, its useless.

Five screwdrivers of similar
size, function, and ability,
three pairs of scissors.

The bargains to good
to pass up, those that look
great (on anyone else).

I carry three hundred video
tapes thru life, though I have
no vcr, a box of wall- warts
void of function.

Cords with nothing to connect to,
outdated periodicals making
conspicuous towers, boxes of
random desires.

Past relationships, no longer relevant,
criticisms and accomplishments, defining
moments, trivial at last examination.

To reformat my life would leave me
with nothing but spontaneity, imagination,
and more room than I need.

© 2011/jdr

I Met a Man

2011-05-03T21:43:00.000-06:00

I met a man on twilight road,
uncommon in every way,
from facial discontent,
to life’s disillusionment.

We spent a day at a last
destination, he told me of
his life of unfulfilled passion,
I told him of my trivial worth.

We talked of a world no longer
recognizable, the reconstruction
of sanity, where the, so called,
end of days inspires hysteria.

How the killing fields were, once
again, cultivating body count,
he asked me questions, I couldn’t
answer, he cried, and I did too.

How once he had it all and lost
it far to soon, not to drugs or
gambling, how tidy that would be,
but as a guard at Guantanamo.

How his guilt slowly bled dry
his passion for life, and with it,
his wife and beautiful child, his
decent into anarchy, quite swift.

He told me of the soup kitchens
of east L.A., the frozen nights
under Denver overpass, and the
desert winds of Phoenix diversity.

I told him of my upward mobility,
when my status was measured in
revenue, how the trophies became
idle burdens to-heavy-to-bear.

I told him how some grew fat on
other’s misery, the malcontent, the
swept under the rug, how I turned
away because my guilt to painful.

Our paths collided releasing the
anger and despair gathered over
lifetimes, the left behind emptiness
filled in with hope and understanding.
© 2011/jdr

Emily Waits

2010-09-22T22:19:00.000-06:00

Emily paused above the harbor,
the sunset rusted evening calm,
she stood and took in its beauty,
each boat moored in harmony.

Masts bob and weave to ocean’s pulse,
facing a waning sun,
a graveyard of spent journeys,
the finality of yet another day’s end.

In town, confusion reigns,
walkways overburdened with curios and souvenirs,
taverns and eateries bulging with party seekers,
sailors full of rum and tall tales.

Never the same, yet familiar enough to
cast indifference to her boredom,
the openness of the sea at times paralyzing.

She felt her life slowly slipping through
her seventeen year old fingers
(as with most her age)
a world of undiscovered adventures.

Emily can’t help but wonder
if she might be the only one waiting,
waiting for destiny’s rendezvous,
her romance still to be written.

Waiting to join her mysterious captain
on some far away exotic treasure hunt,
waiting for true love to fell her, waiting still.

©2006/jdr

Morning Cleanse

2009-12-06T20:14:00.001-07:00

I sometimes walk to clear
my thoughts,
unconcerned with physical benefit,
relaxed in casual confidence.

I’m not obsessed by pace,
rushing along, hips rotating,
clutching midget sized weights,
my beginning mingling with
destination.

No, for me it’s the solitude I seek,
as if some alien encounter had
sterilized my world while I slept,
leaving behind all but the human race.

The introduction of a new day,
serene, pensive, without flaw,
the air crisp like shattered glass,
my senses collectively acute.

The first three blocks a residential maze,
wanna-be watch dogs announce my presence,
wake up neighborhood,
they insist, take notice of this intruder.

Exiting the last signs of civilized intrusion,
nature’s wonderland opens before me,
the dew laden fodder clings knee high,
I reach out and touch my isolation.

Clearing my head of the day to
day tragedies of a world in turmoil,
opening my mind to free thinking,
gone are the petty self indignations.

As the sun peaks over the eastern skyline,
turning the cosmos into pastel amazement,
I become one, in the moment,
no before, no after.