Hello, fellow poets, writers, and viewers. I wanted to simply announce
that instead of delivering posts on a biweekly basis, it would prove more
inviting, if not more feasible, for those who happen upon my blog to
get a closer hands-on experience of me, by posting poems and (often)
vids once a week, mainly Wednesdays. That way, there is no waiting,
and more of my poems can be presented. Thank you all for reading this,
and, please, be sure to comment and follow, but all and all, I hope you
enjoy my poetry.

-Jarrod Lacy :)

Night vs. Day

Night vs. Day

(For Josey Hunt, my erractically intelligent
friend and lover of darkness)
10/22/03
Desperately out of range,
The darkness, unconscious of change,
Speeds to life each evening,
To preface the late and fall to leaving.
The stars seem pitiful and meek,
Tiny glimmers piercing their way to leak,
And like some old stones, they are still,
But they gather their compliments, lending appeal.
The dark is ritual, the dark is service,
The dark is permittable, the dark is purpose.
Those below may be vexed and shamed,
For this moment, some sensibilities are maimed.
Scattered eyes descry,
While minds are miles high.
When the day deepens and the sun seeps,
The moon glistens and coolness keeps.
A daily nightmare, an early task?
One is fulsome and merely a mask.
It's softer, covered, unlike the light.
A meal of adequacy for impending sight.

© 2003 Jarrod C. Lacy

Cannibus: 1970s and 1980s
April 21, 2012

The Coptics imprinted on their hearts
the first book of Genesis,

But when their children were caught taking
a toke, they were instant menaces.

It's was the saga of the seed. The ganga-cloud
       permeating - and all that smuggling.

It seemed there was so much to convince -
Mr. Reilly, oh, Brother Louv, you're even-worded but struggling.

What were those bales in the water? Hay?
Perhaps it was all that haze that added to your gray?

Ooo, la, la, la.
I wanna go to Jamaica.

Praise be for wild grass,
And no need for a social class.

It's agreed: the kids at church weren't in tiffs.
But, yep, anyone would be calm from tootin' fat spliffs.

Old man rastafarian,
What's really in that brown bag you carryin'?

Breathe in, breathe deeply that deep green crushed leafy rappee.
Do you think old Marc Garvey would be happy?

A legacy, your holy tenement.
Puff it. Sweet, but not like cantulope.
Your sacrament, ole' sacrament.
Just make it plain and call it dope.

© 2012 Jarrod C. Lacy

A Green Leaf
October 27, 1999

I am only a bud on a stem conjoined to a branch
that's webbed along with larger limbs, their flesh
is embedded bark, that's splayed into accusatory
fingers pointing in many directions on top, while
the rest of my hidden family is compressed within
a trunk.

I, while in my infancy, played a part with nature's
infantry and spawned accordingly as my birth
would allow. Out of the seed, I was instantly
seduced by an unhoused hue, chartreuse, that read
me as a chameleon for more than sun and moon
hours. Nothing dire. I waited to appear wiser.

At this stage, my brand seems farouche, but I
appeal to the flyers and crawlers who've never
seen or heard me borrow the truth that my
form is enduring, pictured mildly to produce
fully and perform as I should, though briefly
stagnant, this is assured.

When mother's temperature caps us with a
brimming Celsius, then my merit from the
world will prove what yellow and blue
intimately conquers to do for all who will
not only observe me because other kin that
will flourish to accompany a tree.

I could be picked or preened errantly, or be
dulled by the element of overexposure.
The wind can be a friend and blow my
team of bouquets of confetti, and the rain
can drench my residence and sooth the
recapture of my boldness.

My time isn't finite for memory. I extend a
courtesy to any artist who adopts my nature
as a subject, and allow me and my family to
roam in the valley of a psyche, then pour onto
wishes that soon becomes visually and idly
nutritious. When done, find me.

Like a good party, it dashes. My meaning is the
air when it's the early days of its gelid crassness.
An appointment with my final tranformation
and release is sound. To hover and land. I
become them. When it hits, I am the crunchy,
crumbling foliage browned when autumn downs.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy

Torn From the Dark
(For James Byrd Jr. (1949-1998) and Matthew Shepard (1976-1998)
October 15-17, 1998

There and everywhere, indifference is the spoiled
child pouting and weeping in the welkin.

We hope for a season - any season - of rain
to cleanse and comfort this planet-eater,

But the cauldron of stubbornness, loathing,
pride and betrayal all billow to stew than simmer.

We are deadwood to it, and with that, appalled
by reality's now. Chafe to repair this disregard.

Strangers as well as founders, we know the stream
of equality flows in favored paths and portions.

We bare it, the complacency, only for the striving
of hoping and knowing pacification will follow.

Feet are not rooted to the ground.
We will walk whenever, we will be wherever.

It is a long, turbulent trail, but know that contending
powers even the little shrew determined to make his way.

While on this odyssey, know that the
light - any light - is favorable,

But those who have been torn from the dark
had been shrouded ingenuously by an assailant's craft.

For those who are still here and fighting:
Revelation will revile the opposer. Stay quiet.

Be wary but not afraid of those Repairman.
who offer a fixing or a fix before a smile.

The chance to drive oneself away is a compensation
for the savage enclave.

We march onward. We are might. We are brave.
We will be weak, we will be depraved;
Our voices burn in sparks; as for being torn from the dark.

Life or not, a warmness and greatness awaits.

© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy

　







　

Candles Do
August 16-19, 1998

Dip us in paraffin and keep us to stay.
Adorn the top of our craniums, so we may light your way.
We'll perish, but recall the flame, each aura bright for you.
To act as a calm of brilliance; that's what we candles do.
With your caravan of thoughts during a quiet evening at home,
Be alone with our solitary sunshines, and let your mind roam.
Occupy some chose space: dark or dim, commodious, or you cramp.
Give yourself to a mild remission; we shall be your lamp.
When in tears over a love that drowned, and distrusts the bees, do swarm,
Lie your head upon your pillow; let our zeal be your dorm(itory).
Then, the thunderstorms. Utilities tried a bit.
While nightlights are in stasis, our camaraderie will guide you through it.
Whatever your writ, whatever you write, when you open a good book,
Keep us at your side, the chess is set, know the board but be the rook.
And while you yield to confronts of compositions, jotting on pages,
Allow our glows to meet your worlds. The czar of our wages.
Birthdays, some holidays, those times to mourn.
You will lift us to show some honor. All a celebration to be born.
Do pause for a moment of brightness, wherever you're resting, you'll
Return to rightness soon.
Peek out your window-curtain, see impassioned nights, adjorn our radiance
to the charm of the moon.
And, though we are not those sparklers that dot the upper arches
Allow our late morningstars to sound and kindle each beat of those listless marches.
We, together, are a limited sort, and, of course, our stay is never long.
For feelings are you, but faster we melt, and our cries are much more strong.
Many of us are made to be plain, many of us are wonderfully scented.
We come in many designs. Oh, to be invented.
Each a tallowy, little soldier with a slender, skeletal wick,
Burning ourselves to cold, burning ourselves too quick.
Thus, the true wax figures on this earth mostly blue.
An inescapable duty we candles must do.

© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy