JakTraks

Disclaimer

All below's not meant to be
completely finished poetry,
Spontaneous or reworked verse
both printed here: best & worst.

Sometimes Love Feels Cold

The way a cold wet cloth soothes a fever,
For a brief period providing comfort,
Press of heat assuaged; love lies
Damp and chill on an arid surface.

The way a mother leaves her timid child
For a brief span, first day of school,
Press of protective instinct now the sharp
Damp rivulet down her smiling cheek.

The way of snow on the branches of trees
For a season enable needed rest,
Press of life inside the long white gloves
Damped, until the gloves come off in spring.

The way truth lands like soft skin stung by ice,
For an instant the stab is icy hot,
Press of words and eyes on footsteps crossed
Damp the path being traveled plain again.

Doing the Mash

the luxury of bright
blank pages
a smooth flowing pen
fresh coffee with cream
three cats curled about me

I am living my dream

there are embellishments
that could be added
like a writing room
disguised as a tree house
airy and open

but what's necessary
is present and I am
grateful to know joy
in the mash of mystery
sound rhythm and image

Quiet Night, Winter Night

A plow clears the lot and carols
play softly all day light snow fell.
Ave maria. Jingle bells.

Rumbling down my street a truck is
spreading salt (or maybe myrrh)
so every traveler's tracks are sure.

My sleepy cats purr in lieu
of cattle lowing. Newbie angels
with guitars are bending near:

peace on Earth goodwill to all
who hear our hopeful rap, or not,
o holy night, the star
shines from where, from where its been
and will be found again, again.

***

The plow is done, silent night,
roads are salt-blessed, holy night,
kitties sleep and all is calm.

In candle bright I write this poem,
pa rum pa pum pum.

Cat Contemplation

Sometimes my cat Mocha Joe
Harbors wisdom in his eyes,
Lies quietly and contemplates
Occasionally sighs,

Until his lids grow so heavy,
Closing in slow motion then -
After drifting several moments -
Fly open and shut again.

But soon blond lashes lift and he
To his cushion re-adapts,
Focus soft within a daydream
He stares attention rapt

Hunting squirrels in a forest,
Chasing rabbits or climbing trees,
Relief from sweet monotony
Of bearing love from me.

Suit and Suds

Mom called. Its over, Dad is gone.
I'll drive up tomorrow, be there by one.
Put a basket of whites in the wash,
Spruced up and went to the mall
Hating clothes shopping, but it was
Hugely important to me that what I wear
Reflect my deep respect:
A fitted long navy jacket, and pants
Long enough for long legs, like his,
Just two hours searching (a miracle).
Packed my bag while drying the load of whites.
It was only two in the afternoon.

I cleaned my vertical petri dish.
All of it, scrubbed inside and
Out with warm soapy water and
Tea Tree Oil to disinfect.
Threw out what was freezer burned,
Soaked the shelves before scrubbing,
De-crusted jars and put them back
Mirroring my mother's ways,
Discovering (as you may know)
Cleaning can be a soothing drug:
Body busy while aimless thoughts
Fly the frenetic path of bees
Too unfocused to light and sting.

Early evening I don't recall.
Probably a movie before
Putting out the extra food
Water and litter for two cats.
Toiletries were bagged and left
Open mouthed for early morning
Ablutions, before loading the car and
Nuzzling nervous kitties, be good.
Three hundred and sixty miles later
Pulling into only-my-Mom's driveway,
Reached for the lovely navy suit
That still was hanging on my bedroom door.

In Black Satin

After dark
she comes on little cat feet
to the sill,
my felines simper greetings and
relentlessly plucking the blinds
signal their servant
to offer kitty crumpets
on the stoop.
Refreshments done the
siren trots off,
three neutered guys'
eyes follow,
hang-dog look captured
in the glass.

Haiku

busy all weekend
time to rough draft a new poem
and write this haiku

Pine Forest

Forest is a palpable presence
greater than its sum of branches,
coniferous-ly expressing mystery
bottomless as deep-seas are black.

The hottest day is rendered cool
one step inside the blue-green cave -
as if you're walking underwater
through the Earth's most natural nave.

Sunlight freckles the needle-y floor
though not enough to bring it bright,
mythical creatures will appear
solid in the softened light.

Unlike drugstore perfumed candles
in the throat real pine scent stings
pleasantly, a pinch of potent
woodland ginger: tantalizing.

Time spent steeped in forest spirit
soothes the flesh though soul is bared,
in the stillness is remembrance
of how vast and loved we are.

Suiting Up for Wonderland

A tiny sphere.
Puncture and poof,
it begins.
Sharing dividing,
what is divided
dividing
according to
the code: the
dee oxee r-eye bose
code, knew
klee ick ass id.
Calibrated
star dust.
An organic
space suit for the
adventurous
and curious
shot into
the waiting wet
rabbit hole
to this world,
not less strange
than Alice's.

Waiting

Sitting in Egg Harbor -
din slowly rising
as people fuel up for Saturday.
High voices of children,
tenor of dishes and silver,
alto and baritone voices
counterpoint to my waiting,
sipping dark roast coffee
slowly cooling. I keep
looking at the door
they're late, I wonder why,
maybe lost again -
turning south instead of North
on Arlington Heights road -
like they did before.
That's often the way of things,
unaware you're lost
you don't think of turning around.

Window Seat

Never seeming to tire of
peering out four windows
at the same four-season
quiet tree-lined street

lounging the window seat:
benevolent neighborhood watch,
or sitting tall their heads
jerking every which way

following what plays
(leaves ladybugs bees)
or lowering like a Sphinx
into a bath of sunshine

and the slowing of time.
Cats have lotus wisdom:
perceiving the world in
the only street they view,

there are people too
oddly content to gaze
a few familiar windows,
aware of every thing.

Day After Thanksgiving Haiku

three cats around me
cello concerto plays soft
space-time perfection

T-Shirt Time

If considered
by the t-shirts I sleep in -
blue, pink, teal, orange,
gray and lime -
time does not exist.

Six shirts washed
and folded warm,
placed in a drawer.
Ah, I tell myself,
you're good for another
six weeks.

When I reach for a clean one
approximately the next day
and only, say, the lime one is left,
I know my world has collapsed
into t-shirt time,
the black hole of laundry.

Calculate I've run
35-40 therapy groups
the past five weeks,
sat through a gazillion
snoring meetings,
the cats have inhaled
a truckload of Fancy Feast,
and I watched five
(at least) must-see movies
now, its all a blur
the size of a burr.

Soon I'll re-wash the
rainbow of sleepwear,
fold them warm and
put them in the dresser.
Another condensed season
of t-shirt time
begins.

Solar Plexed

its in my solar plexus
no bigger than a pinpoint:

a tiger stalking for fresh meat,
coyotes transfixed by a clear night sky,
frogs out to leap and snap their tongues,
dachshunds and dobermans wagging in windows
alley cats nosing an unusual scent,

the hard and soft of a child's birth,
fireworks and flaming BBQ sauce,
days at the beach with shovel and pail
wearing a Mona Lisa smile,
a daily delivery with no shipping cost,

farmers planning and planting
tending and harvesting,
a red box of tools by the green hammock,
a suit for diving to 20,000 leagues,
the narrow wet mouth of a river;

call it passion or call it love.
finding yours -
no matter its conceptions and shapes -
you know it belongs to everyone.

***
[artwork: color-wonderful/photobucket]

Rules of the Game

We play the game "Survival is the Goal"
offensively to wield a club of clout,
defensively so what we love may stay.

Late autumn falls again, the daylight's doled,
all women track the moon's circular route,
dense clouds drop rain to rinse out life's decay

and ferry nutrients deep into the soil.
Assume we then our axioms the same--
we're pawns unfortunately made of clay

aware the piece does not outlast its role
we cast for hope by throwing dice of doubt
to know we matter more than what we weigh,

our moral mud is plied to save the soul.
Yet we may choose the rules of mind with heart:
abiding those makes gods of us in play.

All Boats Float

if you're sluicing life a row boat
and your s.o. with a motor,
is this a problem or a difference
to be enjoyed, and employed?

my s.o. saw the boats as problem
while I thought the difference good,
I learned to race a motor boat
he learned to slow and take a look.

defined as problem it was wedge
as difference the very spice of life,
he criticized the rowing about,
in the end the wedge won out.

since outcome came from attitude,
in affairs of mind and heart
complementary should be
the yin and yang: not lose or win.

ban the opposites of life
unless your filling up the tub,
making ice or blowing steam,
playing the rival softball team.

True Blue Rose

This eternal rose is always a bud,
Always unfolding, always fully open;
Reason recognizes its perfume
Unsullied by assume or justification -
We call it love, are fed by its beauty,
May trust the scent to point precisely north,
A course for Life, one bold breath away.

Dummy

I just deleted the entry
I began entering 2 hours ago
when an idea entered my mind
and I entertained it until
the first line made an entrance
as a phrase and entrained with
others entered the world of
words except I forgot to enter:
save.

It was a brilliant piece of
writing, my piece de resistance
meant to be a piece of my latest
book which I've been piecing
together like pieces of a
quilt like my grandma pieced
together only out of cloth pieces
but I missed the last piece
for which I now have no peace:
save.

What I really mean to say is:
shit.

Puff, Tango, Plash

This morning, remembering
the daily hour drive east to college
into the sunrise sky
dance of imagination
widening sleep-drawn eyes
with solar soaked art,
dewy kiss, day's first smile,
light's color-coded prayer
for all of us
across its one horizon.

Violet puffs and pipes the dawn,
tango of tangled orange and reds,
pointillist dots petal pink and lime,
plash of gold and scarlet mountains
reflecting Tibet,
sometimes indigo alone
bleaching to cloudless turquoise,
or closed blinds black and gray,
each dawn a postcard to "Dear Me,"
signed, "I'm on my way."

Btwn Flat and Brat

Cats are brats -
(why I like them so much)
more fun than being flat
if you recall, before brat
was slapped out of you.

Not that bratty works at work
or in casual relationships,
the impulse behind it
what we should never lose:
brought back to innocence it
cannot bruise.

Brats annoy on purpose,
say what they think regardless,
push buttons for power pleasure or gain,
blackmailer, tattle-taler, truth sayer,
an assertion of self at best
or heart of manipulative player.

Innocent, its mischief,
risk exchanged for delight
yours and theirs, jabs at serious,
foil for how things should go,
It says your way may be necessary -
that its crap, we know.