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Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Robot October 21, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1970s, Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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She never said she was Marilyn reborn.
Swallowing the incandescent air,
Nonchalant, bidding her time,
Kicking in the most superficial memories.
A vacuumed gutter of change,
Fabricating
The seed of a willow, or
The dandelion’s heir.

An absent goddess
A blonde robot,
Assured by the rhythmic lock of
Boots and whips.
It’s not right to leave the fold this way.

Greedy rogues
Wishing for more,
Dissolving into the arc of dawn.
They’re all fools.
The decaying flutter of heaven’s dollars
Is the only music they’ll ever hear
Tomorrow hangs in the balance
It only gets in the way.

Life’s background extras scatter like frenetic pinballs.
In the end,
The voyeurs got what they wanted.
Frozen in purgatory, empty vessels,
Chilled,
After the vampire left.

 

JadeBlackmore.com

*Another 40-year old poem I found in one of my journals

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Small Talk October 1, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Small talk,
Transparent and barely tolerable,
Drops to the checkered sidewalk.
A chunk of cement strapped stilettos,
Costly and void, but always 90 proof,
Doesn’t sway the heart
Or stick to the ribs.

Butterfly stalker.
Fairfax Avenue graffiti
Covers up Rita Hayworth
With bountiful scars.
these words mean less
Than when
A bubble girl sang it.
That says a lot.

Words bounce back to you
And then up to the ridiculously blue sky
If there’s no one to catch them.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Poetry Reading, East Village, 1990 September 18, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Jade Blackmore, New York, poems, romantic poems, romantic poetry, Veteran Poets.
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He dreamed of long legs,
intertwined with his.
A Cherokee priestess
in fringed suede,
fresh from the hide,
so fresh it still dripped blood.
And he wished for big brown eyes.
He dreamed of a madwoman
He dreamed too hard.

She read a poem
about the desert,
about skin and chains
and hookah pipes.
He stood in the back of the room
in cowboys boots.
He wore a stone amulet
on a chain around his neck.
She wore skull and hatchet earrings.
He wouldn’t have looked twice
if he’d seen her on the street.
He sees her clearly in a smoke-filled room
with the crash of beer bottles.
She smiled like an ingenue
but wrote like a white witch.
He fancied himself a writer
but her words made her feel like a dilettante.
His eyes made her feel
like a long-limbed Vogue model,
but his aura,
all black from hair to boots,
like a misfit with a ponytail
in the third grade,
and he was the cutest boy on the playground.

He touched her wrist,
as she put her poems into her backpack.
“You’re a witch,” he said.
His amulet brushed across her wrist vein.
“And you’re a shaman”, she said.

He bought her peppermint tea,
and she taught him about madwomen of the 18th century,
and he taught her about imitating Kerouac in the south of England.
They walked to her apartment above the biker bar
to consummate a beautiful lie.

A scattered night
transforming  mortals into magic, and
then back again.

 

 

 

 

 

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Down for the Count September 17, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, love poems, poems, poetry, Uncategorized, Veteran Poets.
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I liked you better when this whole thing began-
you were fun, a sleepy-eyed man-child
making Halloween faces.
A lizard-collecting therapist’s nightmare.
Now you’re just a liar like everyone else,
internal organs on the slab for peons to pick at.
There are no secrets between us.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
If I knew less about you, I’d love you more.

 

 

 

 

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Mourning Dove June 11, 2019

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The Mourning Dove

The mourning dove
Perches and coos
on the balcony railing,
She acts as if she belongs there,
a frequent visitor,
a symbol of hope.

A few minutes later
She waddles on the ground
With her companion,
Surveying the mottled pink flooring
for crumbs.
We put out a plate
of crumbled homemade bread for them,
And it still sits there,
An open invitation
For cleansing and peace.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Millionaires’ Wives February 3, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Millionaire’s Wives

They are thin and attractive
With the best clothes,
The dream house,
And husbands who fawn over them.
“She saved me”, they say, “The best day of my life was when I married her.”
They are always on an airplane first class
But every photo of them shows a
Scowl,
A hard look in the eyes
Never a hint of smile,
Lips pursed like a camel ready to spit.
There is always something wrong with
The salesgirl at the fur salon.
The waiter at the three-star Michelin restaurant,
The casual comment  by a friend,
The world in general.
I wonder why
They never smile
Maybe it’s because of
Botox or plastic,
Or because they consider smiling a
Sign of weakness and stupidity in a woman?
Or maybe their husbands just want a
24- hour dominatrix?
I only know if I had
Their lives, I’d crack an occasional smile.
But then I’d get marionette lines around my mouth
And I wouldn’t be fit to be a millionaire’s wife.

 

Poem- There Was a Time by Jade Blackmore January 21, 2019

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There Was a Time

Praise the past
without fragmentation,
With a joy
For the moments
That passed too soon.
Find a bit of glitter,
A bit of professional flash,
for a little while,
To help you forget
What came later.
At the end of the night
You check your memories at the door,
They will not serve you
In the now.

Poem by Jade Blackmore- The Old Man Sitting on the Bus Bench December 20, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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The Old Man Sitting on the Bus Bench

 He sits alone at 3 a.m. on the bus bench|
A paunchy 60-something man
Wearing a baseball cap.
He sat in the last row
And watched the Rocky Horror Picture Show,
Singing and shouting along.
The kids sitting next to him gave him a
Perfunctory smile.

After the rice and the toast,
The kids in black eyeshadow, lace and corsets,
Walk out of the midnight screening,
They’ve learned something from their elders,
A bit of panache,
A bit of glitter,
Besmirched by
The obligatory modern outrage.

Once the old man was a slim firebrand,
in black leather and fishnets with a cheap hot pink wig
singing and dancing at the screenings
before it was trendy.
The decades left him alone in body,
but not in spirit,
As he waits for the #2 bus.

Old, alone and
Waiting for the bus
Doesn’t mean you should give up.
Death is the only cut-off point
For enjoying life.

 

www.jadeblackmore.com

 

Poem – The Man Who Tried Too Hard by Jade Blackmore October 7, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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His speech pattern, stilted and one-sided,
Brims with urgency.
Every word enunciated clearly, low pitched and
Sales-pitched.
There is no hint of joy
Discovery,
Blood,
Or irony,
Just a shell with a cause. All colors muted
Or subservient
To grays and a neutered canvas.

Poem – Single Room Occupancy on 86th Street (1992) by Jade Blackmore May 28, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, city poems, Jade Blackmore, New York, Veteran Poets.
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The exclusive address would make people jealous
If they saw it on an envelope
And never actually visited me.
I could walk to Central Park or the Metropolitan Museum
But three people could barely fit in my room.

Every week, I went downstairs to Beethoven Pianos on the first floor and paid the store manager my rent in cash.
Another tenant, a cute blonde boy with a limp
Always hung out in the showroom.
We’d get Pepsi together from the soda machine
And dawdle by the pianos till a customer walked in.

The Grande Dame of the SRO, an artist who lived in the room next-door to me, always wore pastel maxi-dresses and walked around the hall followed by her cat.
She’d been there six years.
She was between apartments waiting for an inheritance, she said.

I’d eat fishcakes and spaghetti on Friday
At the diner next door, and
Listen to the tubby telemarketing pros
Discuss their prospects

Tourists from Germany,
Students on summer internships,
and party kids
Slammed doors
And padded in and out of the shared bathrooms
In slippers or rubber sandals,
Faces blurred,
Suitcases bumping down stairs
Every month or two.

I walked down Lexington with a Black and white TV in a box
Hailed a cab in the rain,
And reconfigured the TV in a bigger box,
With clothes stuffed in a dresser and in the drawers under a twin bed,
Half the floor crowded with a computer, printer and answering machine.

I’d wash my hair in the sink in the morning.
The window open to the courtyard,
birds chirping, cabs honking, children playing,
Then scurry downstairs
and buy a bagel and coffee from a cart on the street.
I’d start breakfast on the subway to midtown
and finish it at my desk.

Fell asleep with the Boombox turned low
after exploring Manhattan after dark
With friends.
Woke up and did it over again.

No snotty roommates,
Leases,
Or screwed-up boyfriends.
No upstairs neighbors throwing used kitty litter out the window.
Sometimes freedom is better than space.