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
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
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
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
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 is a weekday
So preceded by
Monday and Tuesday
And so followed by
Thursday and Friday
As a Wednesday?
Thanks for reading.
-j
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, that wasn’t a poem
Inquired why it wasn’t so.
Therefore you cannot be,” they rebuked.
“If ignorance precludes art,
How did the first poet pen a poem?” Poem replied.
Else they wouldn’t be the first,” they declared.
Poem persisted.
Obviously,” they quipped.
Was it not a subsequent poet who declared the first poet a poet?” Poem persisted.
Aren’t you?” they scoffed.
I am a poem,” Poem objected.
And your author is naive,” they lectured.
If the first poet wrote me what would I be?” Poem posed.
theisswriter: typing things. for me. for you. 