The irony of social medium,
That thing which makes it such a tedium,
Is that the effort required to post
Subtracts from the moment which matters most:
The present, that which is ever fleeting;
Time we should wish never to be leaving.
Stay a moment longer in it will you?
Post later, when the moment bids adieu.
Category: Free Verse
the village elder
Elderly man strolling alongside the street
Wearing your sweater in this oppressive heat
Where are you from; what do you think; while walking
Back and forth, to and fro, forever stalking
Where do you go when you’re not walking here
Do you live far from where I see you, or near
Peering down at the sidewalk, you plod along
No headphones, no music, to distract with song
Your purpose so mysteriously thoughtful
When our paths cross, I’m struck my you: beautiful.
as I do now
I saw you,
But didn’t see you.
I knew you,
But didn’t know you.
I felt you,
But didn’t feel you.
I held you,
But didn’t hold you.
I heard you,
But didn’t hear you.
I told you,
But didn’t tell you.
I sought you,
But didn’t seek you.
I liked you,
But didn’t love you.
the unit
Ford Fairmont Wagon
Yellow
Webber on tape deck
Cello
Driving and you hear
Bellows
Four boys, and yet you
Mellow
Raised them to be good
Fellows
“The Mother Unit”
Hello
Love you mom,
-j
house
In the middle of nowhere,
That was a somewhere
In a different when,
Sat the sullenly grey,
Wooden-shingled house.
It sat in the middle of a field,
That was formerly a farm
In that other when,
Where the skies were gray,
Which forebode a storm.
In the middle of the house,
There sheltered a family
Who weren’t always a family.
When The Gray came,
A family they became.
Atop the cellar stairs,
There remained two barriers,
While the rest were barren.
And as the storm began,
To the cellar the family retreated.
When blue skies departed,
The Gray was imparted
Upon this part of a different when.
She came with the storms,
Which came with The Gray.
And as this storm now came,
The family knew She was coming.
Down the stairs they descended,
As the doom She impended
Trended downward from the sky.
She was like the storm,
Until in the window She took form;
And a tangible blue She became.
As She peered through the damp glass,
The family huddled amidst the cool stone.
Thanks for reading.
-j
eternal monday’s
If we lived in eternity would Monday
Be just like Friday, Saturday, and Sunday?
Or would it be just another mundane day?
Up early, nine-to-five: all work, and no play?
Would we still view it with such disdain, and pray
That it be over with, and take us one day
Closer to the end of the week; to Friday?
Alas, we are temporal beings; Monday
Will stay Monday. Though we may wake to skies gray,
Still know it as an ever important day,
another precious day in a life of days
Numbered—and therefore special. Embrace today.
Have a good day.
Thanks for reading.
-j
daydream
Daybreak
Dreams of
Days when
Dreams begin.
Daytime
Dreams of
Days which
Dreams are made.
Daylight
Dreams of
Days that
Dream of night.
Daily
Dreams of
Days when
Dreams don’t end.
Thanks for reading.
-j
when’s day?
When is a weekday
So preceded by
Monday and Tuesday
And so followed by
Thursday and Friday
As a Wednesday?
Thanks for reading.
-j
future unknown
If I were a present
I’d be the future.
If I were tangible
I’d be untouchable.
If I were a scene
I’d be unseen.
If I were an object
I’d be a subject.
If I were a word
I’d be unknown.
Thanks for reading.
-j
Poem
Poem, that wasn’t a poem
Inquired why it wasn’t so.
“Your author knows not what he does,
Therefore you cannot be,” they rebuked.
“If ignorance precludes art,
How did the first poet pen a poem?” Poem replied.
“Clearly, the first poet knew their craft,
Else they wouldn’t be the first,” they declared.
“But whose rules were they following?”
Poem persisted.
“The poetic rules,
Obviously,” they quipped.
“If the first poet was the first poet,
Was it not a subsequent poet who declared the first poet a poet?” Poem persisted.
“You’re an annoying little prose,
Aren’t you?” they scoffed.
“Please don’t call me that;
I am a poem,” Poem objected.
“You have no meter; you have no rhyme; your line breaks are superfluous,
And your author is naive,” they lectured.
“That’s because I am unique;
If the first poet wrote me what would I be?” Poem posed.
“Why,
A poem,” they concluded.
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