Poems by JakTraks

Just A Moment

sunlight falls through the window

onto my arm on the arm of a chair,

lays soft and warm,

my rumpled shirt sleeve

made a brief work of art -

study of shadow, texture and light -

and in that gentle heat and beauty

is everything that ever was and is good

A Still Life

the oak TV tray
holds a still life,

a catalog of Great Courses
topped by a book about energy coherence
held closed by a pair of oval glasses
missing one nose piece,

a wrapper of bright yellow-gold and black
housing my half-eaten raw food breakfast bar,
an inch away my grey mug of coffee
painted, a brown owl and wedge wood trees,

one yellow highlighter going dry
touches a small black desk lamp unplugged,
cord snaking about, or a thread perhaps

running under a subscription card and envelope
inviting me to join an association, have access to
words of a deceased psychic,

two black pens, one disposable,
the other refillable,

a black leather journal
under printouts of notes for articles already written,
a small note book of reminders:
user names, passwords, receipt numbers,
topped by a book about handwriting
to improve the quality of life,
which is beneath a printout about retiring wealthy
(cosmic humor)
and a book of daily, supposed, inspirations,
capped with a card picturing two wolves,
used as a bookmark, now and then,

all arising and disappearing countless times
while I have been writing,
and now I know that change
has nothing to do with appearance
although things, when acted on, appear changed,

maybe change is a misnomer,
and whatever is, despite appearances, is new,
even a still life

Secret Sowing

you have to step into the futility
in order to bear it,
to see what it guards:
a garden of all you've planted -
wild with blossoms familiar and strange -
on all the nothing days of life,
the happy, the grief torn,
the electric, and the numb.

To at Least Wade

upon all strips of sand-land
water leans forward
only to pull back - a tease -
receding tides a finger
curling toward its mysterious self
beckoning beach
settlers to at least wade -
cool their hot feet
where the sand begins to hold
every footprint
filling when the waves woosh in
erased on the out
revealing sea skeletons -
intimations of what's
alive in the silentious depths -
walking landward then
feet are shod with weathered stone

so I said,

so then I said,
"are you kidding me?
after all the searching I've done
all I've discovered is
there is nothing to search for

what's with that?

I mean really couldn't I have
realized it sooner
before I bought a gazillion books
and used 10,000 pens journaling?

usually I laugh about this stuff
the joke being on me but
sometimes I have to wonder
about you what?

you were waiting for me
to enable my cookies?

geez louise you could have
sent me a pop-up
to let me know I mean
I always get them after
I screw up so why not
a short one about the cookies?"

so the reply was,
"You rarely let go of the mouse."

so I said,
"are you kidding me?"

 

6 Weeks Laid-off

last night I woke and wondered why
I wasn't nervous

shouldn't I be

without a job
lacking any mapped direction
following instinct happily

now this morning I feel nervous
with no more reason
than yesterday but
still following my nose

hound on the trail of myself

(it is the watching gives butterflies)

scent is strong
the hound is sure

I Just Feel Like Rhyming

I would like to write a poem,
to give some words a brand new home
to relate with one another,
sister noun and rhyming brother.

It would seem that words like form
because its different than the norm
of putting them just where we want,
and dressing them in fussy font.

Free verse works for everyday
like lines about the smell of hay,
but if with words you would transcend
to the words the mind must bend.

Rhyming always makes my day
as it is akin to play,
and gives the words a type of will
as their dictates are fulfilled.

I have loved some verses free,
a poingnant statement touches me,
but bringing spirit into matter
sounds themselves must choose their chatter.

This is a fact and not to gloat,
the best poems that I ever wrote
followed lexiconic rules,
a master builder's box of tools.

After Filing Taxes (5 Days Early)

cool breeze, warm sun,
clear marble of blue above,
a united nations of bird song;
I noticed the tree buds swollen,
ready to pop, spread a wing,
I thought, "I'm ready for that too!"
but then wondered if I might
be more like evergreen needles,
"oh no" I said; then heard a pine
whisper, "there's the tall lady
in her thin light blue jacket -
now I know the days will be
growing longer, heating up;"
me, a herald of a season?
how seamless the natural world is.

Just This Once

saw my psychiatrist
and asked her for a pill
to change me
into a different person

not entirely
but someone fearless
minus OCD twitches
or fractious phobias

we laughed about that of course

talked about my highs and lows
and the occasional sideways . . .
stress on the job . . .
how the writing is going . . .

and all the while I'm still
longing for that pill

generic would be fine

Equanimity

Sunlight lays a cool hand
across my blue-jeaned knees,
I shiver, leaving Mocha Joe
curled undisturbed
on my cozy throw,

how few days the
weather outside and in -
without our manipulation -
provide equal comfort,
so few . . .

more often: the shock of being
stuffed in snowsuits, boots and
mittens, excited to play,
then relieved to thaw with
cocoa in a warm kitchen.

Never-ending Escape

in emptiness sad is acceptable,
softer and clearer than first we interpret,
it hovers at the Earth's horizon
wherever you live,
belonging to the world as you do,

if only our humanity
(being a single feeling-body)
would know its one pain,
rather than attempt escape
by sending it off in missles . . .

Rabbits

Oh so quick, oh so fast -
one direction never lasts
for very long, this way that,
hind legs pumping lithe and strong.

Fashioned to cheer, they are dear,
cute face, soft fur, perky ears,
traveling by deft dressage
their scattered path is espionage.

As bunny parents, they're terrific,
and happy to be quite prolific,
next time you have a job to do,
hop it along - soon you're through.

Nestled in Earth's underground
their wiskers tickle moving round,
looking sweet, looking sunny,
what's not to like about a bunny?

Sea Turtles

The female swims many hundreds of miles
to drop eggs on the sands of her own birth,
clumsy on land but a grace through salt waters:
stillness in motion across Neptune's leagues,
under its shell: soft relentlessness
breast-stroking a steady . . . patient . . . pace;

the weeks of her travel are part of one
ancient, ageless moment, reborn each year
an army of tiny turtles shuffling to sea.

Nothing To Hide Behind

That couple,
when they bit the fig of a foreign idea
the world was made for hiding,

perhaps some inkling other than love -
snuffed even as it was born -
triggered a soggy, persistent seed of shame,

we live under its rock garden, bent,
or keep it knuckled under with hammers and halos,
or at arms length by flayling madly,

always rushing water pressures the stone,
let it break away, crumble,
tumble us inside out

then our dreams become our clothes,
the eros winds - now through us - carry
memory of eternity.

 

 

Heart Rhythms

My heart rhythm is in three-quarter time,
the pace of a flowing waltz
lilting so lightly there is barely an accent;
circles spiral over the dance floor
wearing smiles and eye-sparks of joy
in the banishment of all but innocence.

My legs love the march and salsa,
arms to drum in a rock band,
my mind syncopation,
twelve tones, and riddled-rhythms,
but in the center of a cruising circle
spins the music that,
in the cacophony of this world,
keeps me synced with courage and love;
its why my poems are sweeter
than my daily contemplations,
so enjoyed for their salt and crunch.

Sometimes I fancy that any new world
must waltz into being, or perhaps,
will match whatever heart song you carry.

Before

Looking down I saw the left one
untied, the lace two cat tails
rhythmically thwapping shoe and street.
Like pants dropped to the ankles,
time folded in on itself, and
for one hundred steps, or more, I was
five, before I knew enough
to notice my bow undone, or ask,
"Is this a brush with simultaneous past,
or a digitized memory
in a file fold of brain?" You know,
before life had to mean more,
than life.

3/4 Time

When I entrain to the box-step
of the busy-ness world, and
only despair softens the fear,
I have left Vienna and need return,

my heart requires the Blue Danube
swirl and lilt to keep its lightness of being
bright as play across a child's face,

my mind favors the rhythm of dust motes,
my body revels in rock and latin beats
but my heart, it needs the nested circles'
sweeping flow and grounded flight.

Sky Sweep

it always feels good - after I vacuum,
the tracked litter and cat hair
snatched-up from the dark carpet,

I tell my cats no more shedding or
tracking clay bits into the living room;

it looks as if they pay attention
for a couple days and then
pieces of litter dot the rug, telltale
constellations of feline mythology;

a few more days and the brown weave
has become the night sky so full,
its hard to perceive patterns at all;

another week and the cloudy coat
of cat hair masquerades the Milky Way,
I settle and star-gaze in the arms
of an overstuffed chair;

eventually, in places tread,
the Milky Way balls into clouds
obscuring the celestial view,
to renew, I must suck the heavens
into a boxy paper bag,

no tracking and no shedding I repeat;
and for a lovely couple days
I am pleased to inhabit the void.

Morning After Blizzard

the white world outside my window
a meditation --
like when you close your eyes
during stress-laden days at work
and take a deep slow breath --
only stretched out, compliment
to a brew of bold coffee, celtic song;

some people have been stranded
in snowbound cars for hours,
others are out working
to get life moving again,
eventually I will be in the drifts
excavating my auto from its
stunning wind-carved coat,

for now, I push pause
and linger between breaths,
the wild wind visible as snow specters,
breaths for me; I spy
creatures from middle Earth
deliniated on powdered trunks of trees
while the day slowly brightens; and then,

a yellow parka and fat messenger bag
walk the tire tracks toward the train,
a snowblower revs up and sputters out --
unwilling to spoil this morning's piece of peace,
though its wisdom is soon defeated,

but I will pour another cup,
watch and let the wind breath for me
a wide while longer.

Slippery Moments

I released my crows into the the bright morning,
my doves into a moonless night,
now, at twilight and pre-dawn, dove and crow
wink pearlescent gray, sometimes tinted
by the shifting color-wheel of clouds;
for slippery moments all the world's an aviary
where mystery and clarity,
letting go and pushing on,
fly with one face.