When You Get to Wake Up to This, You Can't Help But Feel Good

This is what I saw this morning when I walked outside, shortly after 7.

It inspired me to write this:

Dawning

Inches away from explosion, the red is

so deep it bleeds

up through the clouds.

The power, of such anticipation, to

set the trees ablaze.

Can't you?  Feel it?

Stirring, growing,

the swell of new, bursting

suddenly.

The birds sit still, wings

motionless.

As if captured by the very way

it thrums.

Sky spreads open, its arms trembling.

Awake, morning!  Breathe!

(End poem)

And with that, I hope each and everyone of you has been enjoying a great new day.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Because It's How She Makes Me Feel

Love is….

The flutter. 

The sway. 

The swell of chest that mocks your heart

for not previously beating properly.

The absent sighs, and random grins.  The moments when the wind

mimics a hug.

How everything suddenly matters.  And nothing else seems to matter.  And how

the two combine, into a telling collage that lips and ears

and eyes can’t quit painting.

On nights, together alone, how you curl so close

you can feel their breath, and even taste it. 

It hangs at the roof of mouth, slips

over smiling lip, and gets tangled in your hair.

 

On nights, when they are not there, the very

presence seems plastered everywhere.  In the dimples

of your pillow.  In the tassels of the blanket, all reaching like

fingers.  In the way the ceiling hangs, above you,

lowering like a body greeting.

In radio songs.  And commercial songs.  And the songs your

mind can’t stop singing.  La la lala la.  Lala lala la

And you know they are singing the very next line.

A lightning strike that crashes against your sternum.

The thunder that rolls in the pit of your stomach.

The cute hellos.  Extensive goodbyes.  The way

you always wish they’d be there.

The flutter.  The sway.  The fear of falling, combined

with the leaps you faithfully take.

Skin seeking skin.  That perfect embrace that

you both hope never ends.

The constant throb of hearts beating.  Lungs expanding.

Veins on edge, requesting injection.

The fill and the feel.

The sounds of words like ‘whole’ and ‘forever’.

That first second when you noticed how
the blood rushes through you,

realizing just how much

you expand.

Because Even in Your Absence, I Feel You

This poem is dedicated to my father, Jacob Jamison.  May you forever rest, in peace.

Wrestling Angels

for Jacob

It is daybreak.

My heart now limps through here,

torn at the hip of your

absence.  Last night

I wrestled with the syllables

of your name.

To wrench them from my longing, a

battle I couldn’t win.  But you

blessed me.

If merely by knowing.  I am

your legacy, breathing, still

living and flourishing. 

I am your breath, your

impression and blood.

Your countenance smiles through me

like God.

Because She Taught Me How to Cope With Things

Tiptoeing

for my mother

when your voice became afraid, and sawed itself

in half, worried that the pain would

seep through its timbre

I would peel off the bandaged layers of my sleep,

keep one ear lifted, up off the pillow, firmly

attuned to sounds from your bed

I needed to hear the steady breathing.

there are attributes the heart uses to

mend itself.  wisdom becomes salve and

strength, an adhesive.

You were always busy, taping self together again.

Many nights, I’d tiptoe

from my bed, towards the shadows, stick

cheek to cold door and listen

for your tears.  But I could tell

you were not really crying.  You were refilling

those things that had drained

To What We Both Buried

Chthonic

we buried in this dirt

a love we couldn’t shake

and are haunted by the

memories,

they keep on screaming

the spirit of that union

moans beneath the surface,

most days

I long to run to it

until I recall, how I ran

and you willingly released me,

depositing our love

into the grave

of your belly

some things are apt to die,

and others go more

begrudgingly 

It Is Time We Listen

Plea, to My People

we are open pediment

missing our base,

struggling to discover where

we lost foundation

we are mirrored woes,

staring us in the face,

yet this countenance of sorrow

hasn’t united generations

we are two wrong turns

and two left shoes,

always stumbling upon ourselves,

still going in circles

but there comes a time

to wake up and move on,

remembering all the moments

when we were treated as sediment

left to drift off, or

left to burn, expected

to drown in our own undoing,

our truth

was in the way that we’d rise

Unfortunately, Sometimes This is What We Find

Pavement

I have watched it for a while,

cold and hard,

sitting there, waiting.

Impact is expected

I wonder if it means to scare me.  Make me

think of open scars and broken

bones.  The kind where

mending

is never an option.

I reach for it gingerly, a chalk line love

that I hope past tears won’t

wash like rain.

But I know

it plans to erase me.  Make me

nothing more than

another indentation.

Your heart is an

impenetrable pavement.

It refuses to let me

through.

Because Ultimately, It's What We All Want

Quick intro:  No, this wasn't inspired by the Lil Wayne song....I can't stand most of his music and feel like the song, as catchy as it is, was nothing more than a gimmick to sell more records (which I don't believe he really sold...lol)  This poem came from finally figuring out the wrong ways to love a woman.  Maybe there is hope for me, yet.  Enjoy.

How to Love

Be quick.  Only use

assured fingers and steady hands.

Stay calm.  Ignore your beating chest.  Try to keep

those steady hands.  

Seize this moment gently,

as if it were a sliver of tentative flesh.

She will be hesitant. 

The best ones usually are, having endured

those rushes that lead to breaking.

Avoid snapping on fetters of adulation.

Be quick but polite, and don’t stare

at her heart’s scars.

Remember conversations are emotional foreplay.

Anything useless is left behind.  Unoriginal

is the same as

unremembered.   Keep this

at the back of your mind.

Just tell her your name.  Introductions mean

everything when they are the only thing.

It doesn’t need to be perfect.  Simply create

the perfect need.  Let it linger. 

Tell her your name.

Then watch her tuck it in a favorite corner of her mind.

Pay attention and follow her cues.

Your compass will be her eyes.

Up usually means that you’ve

already lost her, and down is something even worse.

When they lock on yours

the door is open.  Abandon yourself. 

Rush inside.

Don’t curse yourself with boring obscurity.

Explain your intentions as soon as you can.

Let her know her mere presence

has sculpted a curiosity.  You are clay.

She is Rodin.  Prepare to be

molded in a manner that allows her

to be comfortable letting you in.

Understand guarded is not the same

as uninterested.  Respect those places

she refuses to bend.  Be

patient.  Explain to her

there is no rush.

You are ready.  The hardest part

is over.  

Little Things Allow Us to Remember

I Forget Sometimes

I forget sometimes

    to set my clock’s alarm, my body a spring of coils on these mornings

I forget sometimes

               

                the day of the week, recollection muddled by the moment it’s found in

I forget sometimes

                the names of old lovers, now merely bedspreads, shadows, and sounds of

    indifference

I forget sometimes

                when I was 5 years old, a six-pack of glass bottles, mounted on my tricycle, gifted 

                me my first 13 stitches

I forget sometimes

                the man I long to be, too immersed with my consuming, never heading the 

                warnings

I forget sometimes

                that if I hold completely still, breathless, eyes grappling a pulsing night sky, there 

                are seconds when I swear my entire being blends

I forget sometimes

                what I know of God, until blindsided by overwhelming waves of magnificence

I forget sometimes

                that girl from the park, and how when she kisses, or lies, her left index finger 

                twitches

I forget sometimes

                the birthdays and appointments, anniversaries, song lyrics, and special occasions

I forget sometimes

                my mother’s smile, having been granted a view of Heaven, and thus, taken it 

                for granted

I forget sometimes

                my undeniable momentum, too often forced, by this world, to sit still

I forget sometimes

                the names of old teachers, who saw something in me the faulty mirrors 

                wouldn't reveal

I forget sometimes

                the laws of this nature, like in order for growth to happen, something 

                must be planted

I forget sometimes

                the random holding of my breath, giggling incessantly, being fearless 

                while afraid, licking this life like new fallen snow, and all the other things that 

                are considered childish sensations      

I forget sometimes

                little things I’m glad to have, too caught up in my trials to focus on the treasures

I forget sometimes

                this pleasure derived from words, until its intensity fills me, awesome and 

                unmeasured

I forget sometimes

                old stanzas of my life, full of repetitive mistakes, where I couldn’t refrain

I forget sometimes

                the bench where I used to sit, back in my hometown, off the corner of 

                Vance and Main

I forget sometimes

               

                the simple and complex,

                the beginnings, the ends, and middles, in-between,

                the seemingly insignificant, as well as the essential

                and the truth, about what this all means

I forget sometimes

but sometimes, I can remember              

Because I Think, Out Loud

Lessons, Before Dying

there will come a time,

as this life draws in, because eventually it does,

all a retraction,

that you’ll sit, and wonder

if it all was worth it,

the joys and the

woes, the untimely preclusions sprinkled in

with the happenings, perhaps to prevent

boredom, those

moments

when you found yourself tapping

on the doors, of

happiness, success, failure,

and sorrow,

you won’t wallow in reminiscing, at least

if you lived it, simply accepting

what has come, and make a timely

decision

this was.

only then can you find the time

to worry, on what

comes after

When the Miles Make it Harder

Love? [Sic]

it’s this uncontrollable urge to fold

in this skin so you only get to witness me,

fully exposed, my compulsive impulsion for

unraveling at the seams, all in hopes of

you stitching me together again, your

voice, a needle, your attention, sartorial,

and I become fabric at your disposal,

take me and make raiment

that you wear on

best days, a favorite, so that you never

replace me

sometimes, I imagine getting

trapped in an elevator, or some greater

calamity, like being buried alive.

They teach you, in such stressful situations,

about taking deep breaths and closing your eyes.

they tell you to think of someplace safe

mine lies in a sliver of your winsome heart,

where if I hold completely still,

I’m overwhelmed by your rhythm,

every beating vibration is a metronome tick

keeping pace to a song

my heart keeps singing,

I count on this tune, like seconds

hoping this adds up to the moment

when it’s finally our time, we’re

together, and the stars no longer

fleck the sky, a massive

connect-the-dot to the

place where you really are

my mind traces this line, with sickness

For Those Who Long to Fly

Created, using some lines from the novel I've been working on.  It felt so poetic when I was reading it, that I decided to make it into a poem.  Enjoy!

Lepidoptera

Someone should tell the caterpillar.

Explain that these days won’t always be

shuffle and hide.

Explain that there are still better ones ahead.

Instead of scraping at the leaf.

Or chewing at the bits.

Eventually, they will have their fill.

No more countless hours,

trudging through ugly.

Combing through the hairs of this awkwardness.

Eventually, beauty will sprout from within them.

One day, they will get their wings.

We take to this life like

uninformed caterpillars,

desperately wishing we could fly.

But someone should tell the caterpillar.

Scars and Fever Pitch

This is something new I wrote, after listening to Adele, and thinking about the past.  *Sigh*  Enjoy.

Scars and Fever Pitch

This fire no longer burns.

It is tucked neatly in my chest, an empty hearth.

On good days, it is haunted by the licks of ghostly sparks.

On the rest, it simply collects dust.

Waiting, whispering of days

less lukewarm, days kindled,

kernels geared to explode.

I’m not sure if I took you for granted, or if I simply overestimated your

being here.

I expected to feel the inferno forever, to have insides that you

always boiled to the point of fear.

Of sweating you out. 

Of melting away.  

Of anxiously incinerating in the wake of you.

It takes guts to admit you messed up.

On my best days, I can only ever tell it to the scars.

Or glance up at a star that pulses like you, and

beg that it forgives me.

Again.

All the other days, I am urn, silent but filled with

the stories of our dying.

Alone, I recall your laughter heating mine and

am flooded by the warmth of all your old scents.

I sit here and inhale them, a wrenching chloroform, hoping I’ll wake from this

nightmare, in your arms.

Still heated to the point of fever.

Still a cinder happily caught in that flame.

Still ablaze as my tongue turns your name over.

Still eager and willing

to burn.

Sometimes, It's So Funny, It Hurts...

Lint in These Pockets

a jest

I’m in a bind.

I’m overstressed, but can’t afford

no damn chain smoking.

A lack of funds has severed my fun.

It has, pretty much, left me

broke….

I know, I know, that’s not correct,

the proper word should be broken.

But I can’t afford the n

on the end of that.

I applied for a loan….so I’m hoping.

But it’s hard holding on to hope,

when having no dollars

is making no sense.

Had to spend electric bill money

just to cover the mortgage, so

now I can’t even vent.

Spending all this time

chasing a dime, when I owe a quarter

to somebody else.

Debts rising, prices rising

and money always out of reach.

It’s a damn shame, this strain being broke has me under,

where 1+1

is only 2 of the 10

that I was supposed to pay last week.

And I was good at math, but this ain’t adding up,

only working to owe, and living to pay.

I got a better chance of getting struck by lightning

than enjoying my 401k.

Hell, jobs keep disappearing and they keep

arguing over what’s going to fix the economy, instead of actually rebuilding.

That’s why I fear I’ll need to get a negative sign

before I ever get to see my first million.

But I don’t want pawn off my son’s future

just so I can afford to live today.  Digging through

lint in these pockets, just to find a dollar,

so I can pay back enough to

borrow another day.

It’s crazy, this vicious cycle of treading

debt infested waters so you don’t have to drown,

only to feel yourself sinking deeper, and knowing

the lifeguard’s nowhere to be found.

I want to take financial swimming lessons,

dive in oceans of wealth and never come up for air.

Besides, you know the houses in rich neighborhoods:

the water’s always better over there.

The grass is a bit greener and the air much cleaner.

Don’t get me wrong, they have problems that need dealing with,

but it’s not

scraping up enough to cover last month’s bills,

on top of trying to fix other shit.

So I’m in this bind.  I’m

overstressed, just

biding my time, trying my best.

I got to get to the other side.

The other side of this poverty line

Something New

Note to readers:  Lately, I'm polishing up both my poetry and prose, as I will be doing a ton of submitting in the next few months, to literary magazines and contests.  This is a new poem that I just finished, hoping it is the first step in producing material worthy of publication.  Enjoy.

Manned

for the first to let me touch

when NASA announced the suspension of the shuttle program

I was suddenly slapped by recollection of your thighs,

cosmic, other worldly vessels

all thrusters and rockets

sparking thought of

exotic lands

you taught my fingers to be payloads,

delivered expertly, with missions in mind,

you hid your treasures, a trove on Mars

and demanded I find a path to them

I was a rover, probing happily

oh, to sojourn those corners, seeking truth!

sunset spilled across our

pores, like sweat,

until we lay, stretches of untamed red terrain

your lips, extraterrestrial beings

taught me their language in

short, sweet spurts

finished, fluent, I relayed my findings

your smile communicated

that you concurred

I’m not sure if we can call that

summer successful, once we collected our

samples, we sought reentry,

back to those lives where the

lights didn’t blink

across our weightless bodies like

provoked stars

in my mouth, the feint taste of uncharted rivers,

the air smells of a foreign mixture

somewhere between acceptance and need,

on my skin, I feel yours, this

phantom land

where I once fingered my way

through your lack of gravity and swore

I reached Heaven, as a man

Every Good Hero Needs a Villanelle

This was so much fun writing.  I love the style, the emphasis gained from repetition and repeating rhyme schemes.  For more information on writing a villanelle, follow the link.  

The Dreamers

We are such things that dreams are made,

grasping these stars, we refuse to sleep.

Our beauty lies in that we are unafraid.

While most collect years in retrograde,

sidling over pasts, we refuse to weep.

We are such things that dreams are made.

We know future comes in unfamiliar shade

and that time is a bauble no man can keep.

Our beauty lies in that we are unafraid.

We charge the concourse this folly has laid,

so our lives have no borders, and the reach stretches deep.

We are such things that dreams are made.

We are the heart’s ante, passion’s best hand played,

the way ideas meet action, and are forced to leap.

Our beauty lies in that we are unafraid.

We are miracles, outlasting the maddening tirade

of why life can’t be exactly what our souls long to reap.

We are such things that dreams are made.

Our beauty lies in that we are unafraid.

From the Words, Come Words

Burn the hours down.

The morning doles out

a symphony of reasonable requests,

like patience.

I have none.

I want to smile without having to

borrow it from

my gut.

---  Ka’Mone Felix

Nocturne

most nights, my smiles

are a lot like

a string of stars,

scattered and

distant, flung out

in the distance,

tiny, white dots

far, and yet connected,

to collect them all

might take a while

but this doesn’t mean

I’m unhappy

every night is a mile

on this road my soul’s traversing,

a patchwork in the dark

for all the brightness my

life’s rehearsing,

I long to be a flame

even in the blackest

of moments,

hiding shame to shine

even when the

best days are

denial

because joy

never comes easy,

and I still fear that

most of these

smiles will

leave me

breath held, waiting

for something that

my insides will only find

a means to omit

but I don’t want to let this

break me

one day, my smiles will be

less of these awkward tremors

that stem

from the earthquake of nerves

in my chest,

less defense mechanism,

more sign of healing,

my nights will be peaceful

my days, unstressed,

but until then

I am this open wound

that bleeds out night

its silent air blankets

my not quite right

and causes me to long

for that moment, when 

these hours

no longer

burn

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Novacane

Novacane

I just want you to numb me

it’s not in the clench of moist slits

or from the tricks of lips

that you will come to find me, surrendered

I will raise white flag with a knowing grin

when you unfurl the impurities of

your whole soul, and

center them next to my own

render me

unable to notice anything but you,

splinter my attention with

the way you stand,

demand of me, with your eyes

to always see your beautiful

when it is drawn before me

baby, I just want you to numb me

and while the most intense kisses

lower my defenses,

an intoxicating spirit makes them unnecessary,

I become weightless, waiting

for you to expose

those scintillating eccentricities

at your disposal

show me everything you

have to offer,

far beyond the traces of

tongue against spine,

rub the moistened tendrils of

your intellect

against the most guarded points

of my mind,

let’s go beyond fucking,

truncate the space between

being the woman who

physically turns me on

and the one all parts of me

dream about touching,

mind,

body,

heart,

 soul

become the drug

that no amount of treatment

controls,

roll your strength

like the others only manage to roll hips,

dip me in your confidence

until my own starts to drip

along the meetings of your sensibility and charm,

flanking me like the most inviting thighs

my fingers mean them no harm,

but I just

have to put hands to that well sculpted pizzazz,

you have a delectable flair about you

and I lose composure fast,

when in your presence,

imbibe this devotion that you have me leaking,

because once you have me thinking

I’m all yours

and I just want you to numb me

don’t merely lick me or stroke me

I’ve been there before,

all those intoxicating positions that

make the heart quicken,

toes start to curl, and knees become

weakened hinges,

but there are more delightful places

I am trying to explore

I want to feel you so much

you are second skin,

your essence syncs with the beats of my heart,

and I can no longer pretend,

make my biggest smiles

solution to an equation

where your presence has to factor in,

make the stars in the sky seem

dull in comparison to the

light that I hold you in,

make every lick, and kiss,

and taste and stoke

feel limited in their provided intensity,

when compared to

the shivers I got from your name,

the first time you

spoke it to me

numb me, from everything else

numb me, from worry, wishing, or want

become catalyst to all those days

that feel good, and a shield

against the ones that don’t

baby, I just want you

to numb me