Poetry by J-Ray

Just so's y'all know, I found a few poems that I haven't typed up yet, so this post will be... well... LONG. You have been warned.

Bus Stop Ponder
by Jordan Ray

Here I am sitting at a bus stop
I just had a check-up
Dentist
4 Tiny Gaping holes in my pearly whites

The bill read one-four-six-oh-oh
And that's just the check-up
To get my teeth fixed?
Eight-five-oh-oh-oh
Then there's my wisdom teeth
Aparently my mounth doesn't take kindly to enlightenment
So they've got to come out on top of all that

I find it remarkable
That with all the services that we provide
With all the things that make us a great country
Our healthcare
Our education
our democracy
Our wealth
We still find ways to stress ourselves out
Worry over
Agonize over while contemplating the consequences thereof

And yet I think while I write here with my green pen in my green folder by a green sign
We can still find happiness in the little things
Find joy and solace in the comforts of every day
If we only stopped to think
About how lucky we are
Or about what things make us the most happy

And you know it's really neat that the same things that keep us going
Keep them going too
The third worlders I mean.

Family, Firends
Hope
It's universal, and everybody understands it
What binds us together
Makes us human
Makes us strong
Makes us good.

Hope.
Crosses all divides
Every border that ever existed
By it's warm comforting glow
It lets us survive
Keeps us reaching for the stars

It's the foundation on which the world was built
And it's torch will never go out.


Groitle-Phlasm
by Jordan Ray

Greenish flowers
Baby showers
Fifty-three hours
Austin Powers

Lemon Toasted
Oven Roasted
Roller Coasted
Brother Boasted

Kbble nibbled
Pencil Gibbled
Baby dribbled
Fwoopy fibbled

Japan Pocky
Tiger Rocky
Vendetta Mocky
Little Sockie

With all these absurd rhymes of mine
I'm surprised you've kept with me all this time

But maybe absurdity goes hand-in-handem
To encourage the world to be a little more random.


Glowstick Fashion
by Jordan Ray

One day in May in the land of Hairspray
There was an and named after my cousin Brant
He wore glowsticks clear hanging from his ear
For this fashion you see was his passion, dear.

Although his interesting fashion sense did not without criticism went
For to him the other ants would rant
To us you're a blessing, you crazy ant
For birds flying up high in the sky
Can't see us flying from up so high
But you my firend will soon meet your end
To a robin's belly your fashion soon will you send

One day later sure enough they heard a quack
A duck had niticed him and dive-attacked
So Brant the ant began to heave and pent
And he led the duck closer to the colony's vent

Soon the duck landed at the colony's door
And had seen fowl cuisine laid out on the floor
So he gobbled up all of Brant's critical friends
Figuring Brant, appearing different, would bring less tasteful ends

And now Brant you see, he turned out fine
He made it back home just in time
So now whenever someone makes fun of his clothes
He threatens to run under a mallard's nose

The Train From Tomorrow
by Jordan Ray

Freedom hurtles closer and closer
Like the 9:00 train from tomorrow
Lights blazing the path in front of it
Blaring it's horn and flashing the signs where it crosses the road of someone going on a perpindicular journey

The horn blares again
The conductor shouts
All aboard!
And those who hear it feel a tingle down their spines
Wondering where the train from Tomorrow is going to take them today

I can see the train now
I can feel the train now
Rumbling across the varied landscapes of my fear,m hopes, anxieties and dreams
I can hear the train now
With it's mournful whoo-whoo so loud I can hardly hear anything else
I can touch the train now
Though I don't know if I'm ready to get the rest of my ticket punched on a one way trip to anywhere
I can taste the train now
And smell it too as the lovely fumes from it's engine spark and ignite the fiery torches of my cerebellum

I figure I'll just get on and see what happens

So I do, and I look out the windows as my old existence flahed by
My coat is ripped as one of the signposts by the platform seeks to keep me behind
But nothing will hold this locomotive back
Next stop, your life's next chapter hollers the conductor

Then I look around the train
And I see a lot of empty seats
I wonder who isn't here
And why?
Were they too scared?
Maybe.
But most of them didn't have a ticket
So they gaze longingly through my windows at our shining locomotive bound for life
I look at who is here
And I realize that this train has made this journey millions of times before
Because I've seen the same kind of kids get on
Never to return

Then my despair turns to excitement
And my adrenaline sugers as I head to the opem boxcar at the back of the train
Sticking my arm out the door
Offering my hand to those longing haces staring through my window
They have to run to catch up

I've never felt more happy than when I pull that shining face up into the train
But I bet I could feel happier
If the rest of the passengers on the train bound for Tomorrow
Stuck their hands our of the door of this dingy old boxcar
And pulled more of our brothers and sisters onto this train

Because the conductor of this train is colourblind and ignorant of all money and status
Everyone's got a ticket
So everyone should get one of those fine seats
On this shining locomotive

Don't let whoo-whoo be a mournful sound.
Help the conductor fill those empty seats

Haiku

My feet hurt.
Pink sky, tired clouds
Sun, bed, love

Poetry by J-Ray

Angels, Daemons, and Giants


Giants are ordinary men
But will the world remember them as angels?
Or Daemons?

There are those who strive to do good
To do the best job they can
To do what they believe is right.
Few in number,
Their wings concealed
And wielding great power
Empowered by those they are sworn to serve
With no written obligation at all.

These human angels
Were once ordinary men.
None were born to shake the earth
They hat to find the tremors within themselves,
Like a treasure that is steadily unearthed with each shovelful taken away,
The trove within the hearts of men grows as they dig deeper.
Many of their shovels are named
Gumption, says one.
Chutzpah, says another.
Determination says a third
And Will, says a fourth.

The toils of the outside world are trivial
But their battle within the earth with a spade
Will last a lifetime.
There are also daemons
Who work the same earth.
Their horns are concealed,
And though few in number,
They swell by making slaves of lesser men.
The bearers of malice are powered too by those they swear to serve
So that they may serve only themselves.

Small wonder it is when they dig in the earth
With spades named strife
Greed,
And death
They can dig to find their treasure more quickly than others
But they find themselves wanting more
Never satisfied with small heads of Caesar
Or old pirates dubloons.
They toss them away with the dirt.
They man digging next to him cries out in anguish
But rejoices when he finds his fortunes have multiplied.

Some men dig forever
Hitting rocks that destroy their shovels
Excavating until their hands are blistered,
Their backs stooped.
Still, they find nothing.
But in the deepest crevasse of that which bore us
These men will find the greatest reward.

At times when men become frustrated
And their grip on the spade of greed becomes so tight
Their spade becomes a sword
And their horns are revealed
As this man the daemon threatens his neighbour.
His neighbour with only a shovel named Will.
A tail lashes and eyes burn with rage
As the daemon demands his treasure
For the daemon is poor
Having passed up what wealth of treasure he had
Looking for something that wasn't there.

The man with a shovel named Will refuses
So spade and sword are unleashed.
Sparks fly and dirt is thrown
As blood is spilt
By the man with the sword.
A shovel named Will lunges left and right
Protecting those around him from being bloodied
The angel receives cuts of his own in reward.

In the end, the shovel named Will gives of his master
All that he has to give.
But the people he protects
Become better for it.

For the daemon finds himself without wealth
Because not evil men, but the world at large receives the riches of angels
And the blood spilt by daemons
While daemons inherit the riches of none.

Giants are ordinary men with spades
Purchased with blood
Or gold.
And it is by this that they leave behind
That the world remembers giants as angels
Or daemons.