poetry

Claws

Jamie Pitts, , , , , , Leave a comment

A right to bear arms.
I write to bear arms.
My arms grow bear fur.
Bear arms with claws
Claw out your eyes
While you watch your kids die.

I wish I had bear arms.
I’d pull out your alarms.
I’d disarm your swarms
Of liars and snake charms.

Which kid would you choose
To die and to lose?
To uphold your right
To point, shoot, and fight?
Which one will it be?
Or possibly all three?
For at the end of the day
It’s always been this way.
It will never change,
Unless we take charge

So which kid do you pick?
Which one gets the nick?
Which one will now suffer?
So you can have your buffer?
Instead of a sword,
You take the easiest road.
The one mostly traveled
By fools and rich blabbers
The ones most afraid
They’d let your kids fade
In order to preserve
Their rights to be jerks.

I’d choose none of them
I’d rid of the poison
I’d shoot out my windows
I’d give away my good clothes
In order to keep
My flock of sheep
In an effort to stave
Mechanic vampires from my grave
Get those silver bullets
Shove them down your gullets
No one needs them
I’d rather feed them
To the dirt they will lie in
When my ideas fly in
When someone finally takes
Smart steps to replace
Vicious beasts with no brains
And reel in the reigns.

If we took all the stupid
Slopped in brains putrid
Smothered them with love
While they pushed and shoved
If we showed them how pleasant
Life could be if we shared shit
Wouldn’t it be nice?
Brian Wilson blinked twice.
Two times means yes,
But they changed it to no
As we were sharing our answer
They modified the show
Nothing matters anymore
No justice is served
Free speech is dead
And so are your words.

Come Out From Under Your Shel

Jamie Pitts, , Leave a comment

Originally published in Twenty Bellows Welcoming The Muse: Meta and Other Forms (2024)

Photo credit: Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

If you were to ask who pushed me along in this world,

it’d be Dylan, King, Croce, and Seuss with their swirls,

and Harrison, Berry, Elton, and Tarantino,

for being brave and showing how to tango

with the ones who don’t get it; same with Dahl, Aurelius,

Poe, Grisham, Irving, Sandler, and Chris Farlius.

If I returned as a man, a man with a plan, 

I’d find Steinbeck, Hendrix, Churchill, and then

I’d round up the strong women I lost on the shelf,

for I’m an ill-tempered female raised by more than one wolf.

Sure, these inspirational men have shown me the way,

but why am I feeling so left out today?

It’s possibly because I’ve forgotten my manners,

like mentioning Alice, Harper, and glamours

of being women; fierce, bitchin’ ladies,

for I am one too: bold, outspoken, not dainty.

With fear of retribution, backlash, and whips,

we face our masters and claw back with quips.

We are banshees in shackles, our cycles in sync

with the moon and each other, defying groupthink.

To the losers who assume we cannot lift our own pounds,

may we remind you who’s spun up such sounds.

Praise be to Aretha, Eudora, and Agatha,

Ayn, Teresa, Serena, Diana, 

Pat Summitt, and Sylvia who left us to swoon,

Toni, Jackie, and Maya Angelou.

Hail Joan, Michele, Gloria, Joni, and Dolly,

Bey, Taylor, and Megan Mullally,

because how did Meg manage to find her a man

who levitates when fishing and hunts with his hands?

Ron Swanson: the true inspiration for me.

Every steakhouse he walks to he eats at for free.

But what about Shel, lest we forget

his words and his tunes, a Deepness vet.

For that is the life I want to be living –

Absorbing what Silverstein says about giving,

and to be inclusive, strong-willed, and brave,

to show my children how to see with range.

Alas, I come back to the top of my addendum –

I wish I could focus and be more like all of them.

The Unspoken Land – From Spill Your Guts and Use Your Words

Jamie Pitts, , , , Leave a comment

Most of your friends
know of their names.
Others say they are
privates or shames.
But I know they serve
an important purpose,
so much so that
we do them a disservice
by hiding them in
the drawers and closets,
just come out and say them,
the names of the four “its.”

There’s the butt, the penis,
vagina, and boobs.
The gang’s all there
and the humor is lewd.
They mostly go by safe names
people dub them
when they discuss the stuff
that’s going to outlive them.

Why must we muffle
these beautiful creatures?
They are as much
a part of our features
as the face, the shoulders,
the tip-top of the skull,
but they can be misused
and abused,
made hurtful.

Some people start
with a female part,
but then they flip
and a male they start.
A they or a them,
a he or a she,
it doesn’t quite matter
who you’re meant to be
as long as you love
and are kind to your peers,
for no one should dictate
life’s cheers, jeers, and fears.

Others remain
A woman or man
and love their own kind
and stick with their clan.
Man crushes on guy,
lady treasures a gal,
you do you,
don’t get caught in the trowel
of hate, hypocrisy,
bias, and mean;
to try and understand
is the best way to glean.

So if you can find
a safe place to spill
your guts, your feels,
your flailing free will,
keep these in the back,
unless needed to hack,
the code of life,
which could bring you strife.

You might use these tools,
to ward off fools,
or to keep your cools,
or to spin your spools,
but whatever you do,
don’t use them to drool.
Take great care,
preserve them like jewels.

My Veins – A Poem from Spill Your Guts and Use Your Words

Jamie Pitts, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

This one goes out to all the vampires and labbies out there.

Keep on sticking and keep that microscope lit.

I used to think
the blue strings in my wrists
were sparkly mirages,
not roads that take twists.

Through my body they carry
my blood to and fro;
my veins and arteries,
swoosh, swirl, and flow.

But then I got older
and found that my veins
are keys to locked doors;
my veins hold the reins.
My bloodwork tells secrets;
big ones, in fact.
Such as how much I need
to drink water to last.
Or how much I should walk,
how hard I should try
to push myself further
and make myself fly.

Neutrophils, lymphocytes,
microscope, show me the light.
Leukemia creeps.
Anemia is cheap.
Go on, platelets,
pile on in a heap.

I tried running blindly
from the vampiric lives
that came quickly at me
with needles and knives,
but they tackled me down,
tourniquet so tight,
jabbed ever so gently,
I felt not one bite.

Now I am floating,
only able to enter
if invited in
to the heart’s red center.
My lab tests disclosed
my current state of living.
I think I’ll go back
to donate and keep giving.

My Feet – A Poem from Spill Your Guts and Use Your Words

Jamie Pitts, , , , , Leave a comment

I attempt to trample
Ten thousand steps each day,
It’s struggling yet fulfilling,
My shoes they start to fray,
The bones in my feet,
They ache and complain,
The muscles persisting,
Feeling no refrain.

My feet are my livelihood,
My solo means of movement
If they are to turn off,
I’d still find a way in.
A wheelchair,
A stroller,
Skateboard or scooter,
Anything that rolls,
And keeps me uprooted.

One day I’ll get strength
To walk ‘round the globe,
To traverse the Pyramids,
The Cape of Good Hope.
Glide on the Great Wall
Stroll the Taj Mahal,
Hop over cherry blossoms
In Japan as they fall.
Skip through the Colosseum,
Hike the Grand Canyon,
Tiptoe softly through
the Tower of London.
Tap dance in Stonehenge,
Stomp in the caves
Of Patagonia, Easter Island,
Peru’s frothy waves.
I’ll gallop in Greece,
Trot through Barcelona,
Parade through Sydney,
Roll out of Roma,
Race sheep in New Zealand,
Bury toes in the sand
Deep in the Sahara,
Death Valley and Moab.
The journey will round me
And offer me growth.
I’ll walk where I want to,
I’ll admire not loathe.

Saunter, stride,
Traipse, and tread,
I’d walk until
My feet were dead
If it meant
I could fully immerse
In the pockets and folds of
Mother Nature’s purse.

So paint your toes,
Massage your feet,
Give those tarsals
Good pieces of cleat,
To stand on,
To walk on,
To go through the day
Your feet need your kindness,
Not focus astray

These two little darlings
Hold you upright,
They grow funky toenails
They get cold at night.
Or sometimes get sweaty
When in front of a crowd,
Or trip over sticks
When hiking above clouds.

They can cramp and break,
Sprain and pose,
Rub them and slather
On lotion with rose.
They deserve the best kicks,
They hold up your knees,
Tickle your feet, go on,
Give them a squeeze.

I’ll Be Doggone

Jamie Pitts, , , , Leave a comment

*Title stolen from a cool Marvin Gaye song you should listen to right now.*

What if people came back as dogs?
The Poodles, Labradoodles, Shih Tzus, and Pugs?
Slathering, lathering, sopping up love,
Won’t you,
Why don’t you,
Pick my poop up with gloves?

If dogs were people, would life be less dense?
Would we lick our wounds or bark at the fence?
Would we wag our tails at the beauties of life?
Or chase down the tennis ball to forget our strife?
Would we knock over drinks with our butts so round?
Or stare at the door when we heard a strange sound?
Would we drink from a bowl and eat with no hands?
Or scarf down tough grasses and poop them in strands?

If I were a dog, I think I’d join a band
Of barkers and snarlers and growlers and then
I’d roll in gross mud, I’d eat your new thong,
I’d drool on your clothes, I’d gag on a bone.
I’d run to and fro in the fields with long grasses,
I’d smell daffodils and sniff new dog asses.
I’d love ‘til I couldn’t, I’d kiss, scratch, and itch,
I’d steal kid’s stuffed animals and make them my bitch.
I’d hump uncontrollably ‘til my owner says stop,
Then I’d look at them innocently until they flip-flopped,
On letting me work out my instinctual needs,
If I were a dog, I’d avoid getting fleas.

If dogs were people, there would be purebreds,
High in their towers eating sweetbreads,
The mixed and the rescues would party at the bottom
And give not two shits for the ones on the mountain,
For one shit is plenty enough to inhale,
If dogs were people, the mutts wouldn’t care
As long as they had their ball, stick, and rope
For that is enough to survive, thrive, and hope.

Strong-boned, meaty shoulders, and all of our butts
would wiggle with joy as our tails went nuts.
Dogs are the leaders of love and true whims,
If I were a dog I’d come back for free swims.

Running Away Towards Home

Jamie Pitts, , , , Leave a comment

Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou
went for a walk not knowing where to,
with one shoe brown, and the other blue,
she strutted softly without a clue.

She was on a mission, for what, for who?
She knew not of, but had her dog named Blue.
She carried her pack, full of books, food, and toys,
But realized she left the flares that made noise.
Should she get lost, no one would know,
But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou, was insistent to go.

As she moved through the woods, the town watched her back,
Some cheered and rooted she’d stay on track,
Others hoped she would stumble or fall in a hole,
And be left in the dark, with no longer a soul.

But Vio-Lotta-Letta (sometimes dropping the Lou)
Did not lose sight of what was true,
Of what was important, of what was right,
of what was real, of what was fright.

She foraged by day, picking morels and wild roses,
Concocting potions with her fire and doses,
She slept in a blanket, her dog by her side,
Hoping the journey would be quick and subside.

But she knew from the womb, all good things take time,
Work, intent, and action, a little bit of sublime.
So she kept on her trail, her nose to the ground,
Her lovers and friends the background of sound.

Day upon day, Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou
Slunk through the forest, pushing through,
For she was stubborn and stuck in her ways.
But knew she wanted more for the rest of her days.
More as in pow, whizz bang, smack, splash,
The kid kept going, hoping she would not crash.

The path she was on was worn and ragged,
From others who tried, some victorious, some jagged.
But her head remained high, her eyes on the prize
Her grandma once said, “Be ten times your size,”
So she grew in her mind, to be bigger than the sky,
And she continued on happily, as the cold nights passed by,

She had her pup, her dearest pal,
her furry companion, her cuddly gal.
Who would keep her warm, amidst the mess,
She marched on forward, so eager, so obsessed
With making a life of all she ever wanted,
It would take heaps of guts, a normal life stunted.

At times she would fret when she was alone,
Her parents behind her as stiff as a bone.
For she left without warning but one day would show,
That Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou really did have to go.
To see the world, she had said, and the normals said pshhh,
But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou looked forward and mushed.

She brushed off the forest as it clung like glue.
Trying to keep her from doing the do.
For Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou somehow never knew,
She had it in her heart, where she was going to.

She thought back to home, where times were different,
Where people were habitual, traditional, not flagrant.
Many dissuaded her intentions, gobs insulted,
Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou shielded and refused to be jolted
By the piles of No’s, and Can’ts, and Won’ts,
Of excuses for days, the Do’s that remained Don’ts.

For people were sad, and mad, and stuck,
But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou refused to be muck,
Even though it would mean to leave it all behind,
She took up the challenge with her goals in mind.

Eventually she made it to the glorious place,
And basked in the sunshine until it felt glazed,
For she realized that nimbleness and perspective are key,
And kindness reigns, but Love is Queen Bee,
For nowhere is ever the end all be all,
And happiness lurks in places so small.

Contentment is key, and you should too
Be more like Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou.