Staring down into a glowing abyss
Ever uncertain of what I might miss
My eyes are averted, my head affixed
To the ceaseless racket, drivel so crisp
To my eyes betrayed, the antithesis
Of a life spent free of its endless mist.
Category: Poetry
(writer’s) blocks
I liked blocks as a kid
So, why’s writer’s block bad?
sigh…well,
I have got it right now
But I’m writing, somehow.
shrug…so,
Like back when I was young,
Playin’ with blocks is fun.
Thanks for reading.
-j
memoriam
Humid air and darkened skies
Blossoming flower
Another soul departed
(anti)social
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.
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.
photo
I love photography,
But don’t much like photos.
Clinging to memories;
Negatives–I don’t know,
Doesn’t appeal to me.
To future, and to grow,
Is preferred, honestly.
However, apropos
Of this–the irony
Is not lost on me, though;
Knowledge, maturity;
Photos offer windows
In time to the many
Circumstances that show
A glimpse: identity,
Gained ever thoroughly.
Thanks for reading.
-j
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
8/1/14: a haiku
Today, I would like to offer up some context to the poem, because it holds special meaning to me. Its title is the date it was written–at the outset of arguably the toughest spell in my life, but nevertheless the period of most significant growth. It was a time marked by constant thought, and restless sleep; the latter of which plagued me on August 1, 2014: a relatively temperate night spent peering out the guest bedroom window of my wonderful, inimitable friend, Daniel’s, house. It’s the only haiku I’ve ever attempted. I hope you enjoy it:
cool summer’s eve
moonbeam
removes the leaves
Thanks for reading.
-j
theisswriter: typing things. for me. for you. 