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World Poetry Celebrates KEEP TALKING from Kodiak, Alaska!
This entry was posted in General and tagged Author Sharon Rowe, http://www.keeptalkingthefilm.com/, International Peace Award Ariadne Sawyer, Karen Lynn Weinberg, Kartemquin Films www.kartemquin.com, KEEP TALKING, Victor Schwartzman, www.tentreesproductions.com. Bookmark the permalink.
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“Academy Days”
Green planets and purple suns.
The silent, dead majority, has the runs.
Dreaming eyes glow.
Neptune’s love grows.
Living in a circus’ puns.
With summer suns.
I am stuck in the town of Monson, with the white walls.
And prep school halls, at the Academy.
Fighting brawls.
Breaking out, underneath the shining waterfalls.
I have been dead in bed.
Once, in a dream book, I read.
A world, that wasn’t well fed.
While creature despots led.
Jon Billet
THANK YOU FOR SUBMISSION-“Life is sublime, when it changes from a riddle into a rhyme.”-FROM-
THE POEM “RHYME TIME” IN GOOGLE.
I Have been mentally ill for 42 years. Through no choice of mine and not to my liking. Although I could enjoy my moments of lucidity with more joy and appreciation than the “normal world,” could ever hope.
I say, “Power to the mentally ill’s evolutionary force!” May the world, “Live long and prosper.” if it can
survive the harm it does. I don’t care, I have, “Lust in my dick and love in my heart! “- From the notes of an
above ground skits. “Who more full of himself than his sh*t is.”-Love Jon Billlet
“Andrea”
Thanks for the happy smile.
It lifts a sad world a mile.
You make my melancholy sky, a jolly one.
A yellow rising sun can be fun.
Makes the tearing fountain pen run.
Living life can be a complex pun.
A mind’s quick rush induced high.
Black and orange butterfly floats by.
Poetry’s pumpkin’s pie.
Below the sky.
Dew drops ascend into the clouds.
The singing song maker endows.
Like you, to me, with your heartfelt vows.
Tomorrow’s borrowed time, today, will never go away.
Always to stay.
To love you for another day.
All in the way you speak what you say.
In your heavenly sent wordplay.
Spoken to me, last Saturday.
On Jon Billets’ Birthday In May.
“Nightmare In A Telephone Booth”
Went to see my therapist at 2 a.m.
Late night jobs ended at Macy’s.
Rorschach and word association testing.
Lying on the couch, I fell into a deep dream.
Drowning in a telephone booth.
Drinking green Irish coffee.
A dime for a phone call.
Sixty cents to be kept fed.
A windowless room, called jail.
I sail out of my dream into a stream of consciousness.
My psychiatrist goes to sleep in my dream.
I fly to heaven through the clouds on a Gossamer’s wings.
To me she sings.
Of Saturn’s golden rings.
A New Year’s Saturday morning it brings.
I wake up alive.
From my analyst’s dream.
The solution to this night.
Leave the country.
In a midnight flight to Canada.
Where guns and knives have no lives.
Jonathan Billet
“Nubian Goddess”
Pulled the cord and snow fell.
Butterflies walked on the highest rocks of Venus.
I saddled up a kangaroo.
It took me from a green planet’s heights to an orange planet’s lofty mountaintops.
Children painted the sun, just for fun.
Tiny hummingbirds wing on wet pavement.
Shampooing the hair with Ajax and bleach, then conking it with oil.
Always practicing nose kissing and body writing, with my Nubian goddess, whose name is Cleopatra.
Epileptic child, get your release from heaven above!
By Jonathan Billet 01/07/10-
“N.Y.C. & S.F. – Park Bench.”
Lying on a park bench, dreaming drunkenly, on bottles of Bicardi 151.
In a stupor, whispering senseless, secret nothings, confidentially, to herself.
Bright, white hair and yellow, rotting, decaying tooth.
She is awake and staring at the sky incoherently.
Clutching on plastic bags and the bench’s handrails to sit up.
Expressionless, she gets up and walks on one of the twisted, curving, paths.
This will get her nowhere quickly.
She is in a rush to get there.
The universe will start anew if she ever does.
By Jon Jonathan Billet
I HAVE NO FORUM FOR PUBLIC THOUGHT.
This is done just for the sake of the one sun-mine.
“Rest In Pieces”
Let the world wake up before I go to sleep.
Don’t let me go to sleep anytime sooner.
I hope my eclipse isn’t solar but is lunar.
I don’t write that well.
Learned in school how to spell.
My undiscovered thoughts lie in a wishing well.
School bell rings and wishes I would go to hell.
It’s 7 here and 11 in heaven.
I hope I make it there, before I am called.
While you still can drop me a romantic line.
Write your name on the dotted dollar sign.
That way I’ll always know that you will be mine.
Keys may not open every door.
While I’m waiting for judgement, lay with me on your floor.
We can live in the center of the earth’s core, forever more.
Send My Love To Andy- Jon Billet 12/28/15
Thank You for the space to write. Even if nobody reads. I communicate with the lonely universe I live in partially. Don’t mean to bug you or cast shadows over you. Only want to give you cosmic laughter and joy, if you can tolerate it. LOVE YOU- Jon Billet
“Old Age”
I’m growing older as you’re living younger.
I get tall as you seem small.
My many gains, are not the losses.
You live with my bosses.
Stars gleam.
On old jute box and cigarette machines.
They glisten and glean.
Inside my old bar scene.
I saw on yesterday’s television screen.
I’m really a thirteen year old teen.
Going through your puberty at such a speed.
I can’t even read.
The right is the apocalyptic sleep’s, blind light.
They are uptight about they’re upcoming flight.
Our lives are measured in mornings and nights.
Days of sights.
Speed’s might.
I try to write.
Jon Billet
“Dismal Beauty”
I’m growing older, as you’re living younger.
I get tall, as you seem small.
My many gains, are not the losses.
You live, with my bosses.
Stars gleam.
On old jute box, and cigarette machines.
They glisten and glean.
Inside, my old bar scene.
I saw on yesterday’s television screen.
I’m really, a thirteen year old, teen.
Going through your puberty, at such a speed.
I can’t even read.
The right, is the apocalyptic sleep’s, blind light.
They are uptight, about they’re upcoming flight.
Our lives are measured, in mornings, and night.
Dyslexic’s days of sight.
With Winter’s abysmal, candlelight.
I’ll try and write.
Jon Billet
Heaven’s Above”
I told your white lie, in the heavens above, to the clouds’ sky.
Which let out a loud cry.
Flying in a song bird’s lullaby.
Down south, in the green coral covered sea.
You were kneeling, by the shore, on bent knee.
Wanting to fly free, like me.
An impossibility, in what seemed to be.
There will never be any other you.
We were once, one in two.
Stuck together, like epoxy’s magic glue.
Star crossed loving.
In yesteryear’s spiraling ocean’s front door’s floor.
Twisted and windy, in a dream, overflowing,
Our love was apparently growing.
The heavens appeared to be knowing.
Always preferring, never showing.
This past of ours,
In its turning spin, is slowing.
By Jon Billet- Revamped- 08.22.16
@JonBillet -The sweetest sound I’ll ever hear is God’s birds, whispering in my ear. Poem after poem, year after year. Soulful songs tears to hear with my ears.
“First Of May”
Mailmen are arriving, everyday.
Sun keeps shining.
Love goes its own way.
With my mind, you play.
Life,will always stay.
For the latest day.
Everday’s
sundae, of the first month.
A monday’s tenth of June.
Which left very soon.
It came at night.
Arriving at noon.
Under, an empty moon.
Eaten. by a Gulliver’s’ measuring spoon.
A resounding tune,
played by pipe organ, and bassoon.
I am the flying loon,
bathing in heaven, where it was always, seven.
Down below, it’s eleven.
Always drinking, from a golden spittoon.
March, April, and Southern red, dirt clay, slip into June.
January’s February, seconds of afternoon.
Slow they go.
Nighttime’s dawn, sleeps early.
The hours stay, in the months of the day.
I’m hoping for an early, raining May.
Forever, staying…
Never going its own ways!
When the lover plays,
minuet clock’s, slowly, passes the foggy, clouds of haze.
Jon Billet