Poems by JakTraks

Framed

If you stand in a door frame
facing what we call the future,
letting the winds of time blow future to past,
life stops being painful.There is
no stepping forward. Turn around,
you can see the movie of life,
and enter it to play your part.

I think the doorway should be frightening,
but it isn't. Facing out
is blissful. Maybe it's the juncture of
a figure eight, where polarities
come together as do day
and night at twilight. Or, the exact
point where probabilities find form.

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

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?"

 

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 . . .

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.

The Dog That Limped

After releasing helium beliefs
into the bright morning,
what to put in my cup to drink -
the usual dark roast, strong
and a bit bitter, or
an exotic tea
steeped in a glass pot?

Leaves on old-growth trees once -
by the wind during a lightening storm -
whispered ancient secrets in my ear,

an ordinary thought saved my life,
love thick in the air around me,
a full moon tapped me on the shoulder,

before I fell asleep
an angel bent down and kissed my cheek,

Woke from a dream -
still feeling the press
of the deceased's hand on mine,

my cats follow with head and eye
things I cannot see,

a bluejay - in this jay-less neighborhood -
sat outside the screen door
and gave me a dressing down,

the wandering dog that limped
told me which house he lived in,

and those 5 young Cardinals . . .

these moments remain as tea leaves
at the bottom of my cup
of dark roast, strong and a bit bitter.

The Six of Us

splotches bright red
high in the bare branches,
stubborn leaves perhaps? why,
was two young Cardinals,
and soon . . . three more . . .
all smaller than my palm,
five red peppers
spicing the snowy limbs,
I wanted to stand there forever
but it was the coming of things,
the constant shifting of things
brought the birds and I together,
the same flow
soon ushered the six of us
on our ways.

Live Loose

Life is movement
Not all movement sustains life

Refrain from movements
That do not sustain life

Be the stream in the stream
Movement supporting movement

Beliefs float like sticks
Moving but not movement

Hate sits like a stone
In the bottom muck
Constantly washed and smoothed

Not all form appears fluid
Yet appears because it is fluid

When the universe blinks
All things are flux
Re-set when eyes re-open

Living well is a duet
Of form and flexibility

Meditation on Cups and Saucers

Some plain, some flowered,
tall, wide, thick skinned
or thin bone china,
stoneware, unbreakable ware,
painted, filagreed, glazed
or plastic cups and saucers;

Nouns are so general, in general,
lumping things together by function,
its the qualifiers, the adjectives
that spell value;

I have a cup and saucer
made in occupied Japan,
(so more valuable, I'm told)
it was a grandmother's showpiece,
now a keepsake, and
green, gold, white work of art;

Does a showpiece or momento
long to hold hot liquids,
feel lips embrace its edge,
hear the chink of being saucered,
be pummeled with soapy water
and drip dried?

We treasure the pretty things more
and use them less,
what I like about my mom:
she isn't afraid to use the good china,
several times a year
it comes out of hiding
to grace the table
and those around it,
no point in having nice things
if you don't use them;

But we are loath to break
what is hard to replace,
though I wouldn't want useful things
rendered more common,
only more necessities made beautiful.

Now, I wonder if the saucer
feels like a second fiddle . . .

Once Removed

The steps double back
to second floor,
bush branches
tall in icey air,
barely a covering of
snow on matted grass,
a building across the way
mirrors my own,
(like seeing yourself
faced in someone else),
from the back of my chair,
kitty reflects
the same scene,
using similar senses
more sensitive than my own,
but I create
reflections of the reflection,
playfully using
words - though once removed -
as sparks to fire.

Slipping Twice

you slip into the world complete
though too young to know it

when old enough to see
you only know something's lost
until decades later
you find a missing sock
though never sought

its only a stupid sock
that belongs in my drawer
with its matching stupid sock

you put the pair in there
tucked to the back left corner
underneath your pile
of better socks

until the morning
you open the drawer to find
it's the only pair left
balled up and
spotted by a shaft light
sneaking through the blinds

you think about
going without socks but
finally you stick
your stupid feet
into the stupid socks
and slip into the world
again

this time knowing
what you always knew

Eau de Sleeping Cat

Scent of sun-warmed white linen,
soft lips brushing a cool cheek,
slow flow of bright-blue water,
new leaves waving from gnarled trees.

Time

where it's timeless
we sit with one mind
the clock ticks

Park Bench

In the park not far from the corner of
Hawthorne and Vine, under the old maple,
guarded by birch, pine, elm and oak,
I have come to know the human heart's

diffuse tang of joys, sharp of grief,
bittersweet of souls sitting for solace,
stillness of a lily on its pond,
beat of longing for love, or dancing in it.

To those without a place I am place,
fixed familiar lap with open arms,
firm bed to dream away the dark
or savor anonymity of night.

Names unknown, faces all conjecture,
no recall of different derriers,
there is no you I ever recognize,
as benches are bench, hearts are longing-to-share.

Traces

here nigh an eagle’s nest,
here the desert teaches
without plush appearances
beauty of space and plane . . .

how eagle traces its poem
over reams of sand,
with acute vision reads
then mimics the cry of stone . . .

how dry winds wet
the lips of intuition, why
silence streams solace,
impresses felt melodies.

for us at this apex
detail diminishes behind
broad strokes of ochre
circling each bluff . . .

but taking eagle perception
note movement of life
in the day’s isles of shade,
the moon’s cape of night.

here on this ridge
where mind melts into space
I trace echoing sighs
on planes of sand paper.

Chipmunk

there. out my front window. a chipmunk.
the first I've ever seen in this yard.

years ago I held a baby chipmunk.
left its garden, followed me down the walk.
the soft, warm, bony sense of it
still a wild life in my hand.
through the worn white fence I set it back
beneath the shade of pink and purple blooms.

now telling the story I have to wonder
if today it finally followed me home.

Fly Paper

what is the term for flypaper
when its fat with flies . . .

what is the tab for air filters
frayed and grayed with dust . . .

what is the title of a fork
that stabs and ferries meat . . .

what is the tag for human beings
loaded with belief?

One Clover

escaped my office for the outdoors.
sat a patch of grass in shade,
deep-green blades. white clover.
brigades of large east-bound clouds
moved smooth in strict formation.
tossed tress seemed as children
ebullient in the throes of play.

my eyes rest on one clover.
felt all that we have in common.
if I take it inside with me
into the stressed fluorescent stale
stew of cold processed air,
weighty expectations . . . but,
I'd never do that to clover.

Imagine That

therapists ask people to visualize
personal safe situations
from intrusion of insanities
forces of fear, anxiety angst.
politics with the narcissistic.

most create a place bonkers with beauty:
room, forest, mountaintops,
rivers that run through it.

most people imagine themselves alone.
or in companionship of cardinals
cows, rabbits, deer or dolphin.
the occasional lizard or grizzly.

we know how to envision lives of peace,
security and lush lovliness.
but if we were to make it real
we would be saving ouselves from rescue
and the sweet swamp of specialness.

a good world will not be wrung from bad,
right will not lord it over what's left.
I and we interdependency
will not tear the chaff off the wheat
but rise and sail the sky a new moon.

 

Chlorophyll and Cones

overcast. cool for July.
trees silent in the still air.
each introspective,
meditating. my
steady foot falls do not disturb.

deciduous and
coniferous rest.
an interspecies retreat. or
monastary of giant motley monks -
green hoods over rough cloth -
exuding auras of gratitude,
perhaps for chlorophyll or fertile cones.

I did not greet the trees today
but walked in life's reverence for itself.

Storm With An Inside Voice

last night's storm, mild and tactful.
holding back so not to frighten dogs,
cats and children. some adults.
a diplomatic bru-ha-ha
between nature wild and domestic
spread across the night. thinned.
no sucker-punches rocking the bed.
nature using an inside voice for
non-violent demonstrations of power.
benevolence without commanding respect.
everyone waiting for the huge crescendos,
exclamation marks, the clap
that sends everyone under cover.
it never comes. this an all-nighter
working tempered for the long haul.
impressionistic weather where
any climax is felt anticipation.
rain delivered without the drama of canons.

Cloud Anomaly

 

across the inverted china blue cup
shreds of a cotton ball drift,

a bunny wandered from its mother's den
alone with the mystery of birth,

singularity of condensation
cruising escapee from natural law,

lone white clover on a grassy field
by default a renegade or scout,

single note in an otherwise
silent symphony inspired by
reflections of dandelion seed,

waterlily on a still-ish pond
a fractal wisp from the family of flower,

a spider's web lacing a blue rose.

Cleared for Landing

a dandelion seed
caught on a brick
outside my front window.
not a fertile spot.

tempting to set it free.
what worse thing for
a soaring seed than an
uncreative landing.

is it meant to struggle?
is it learning a lesson?
perhaps waiting for
the favorable wind.

it could be resting there
enjoying my daily view.
it could have stopped to give me
something to wonder about.

or do I make-up meaning
out of circumstance?
no matter what, I've
enjoyed our encounter.

now a vision of all ripe
thoughts parachuting
onto minds of ready
rich soil or stone.

Creating Space

a fickle day between shade and shine.
i'm creating space. casting out.
is open space an uneasy place
for being bereft or for being full?

clean and lean. free of debris
and the saved but never used items,
the out of date or crusted over with time,
impulsively purchased, packaged but dried up.
what remains lose their dull dust-jacket.

expanse feels light, and threatening
in the way of becoming vulnerable,
though also a great exhilaration
in the way of being vulnerable.
a mirror of the truth of ourselves.

cleared fields lose their land-marks.
where things are not imagination roams -
this the terror and the tease of it -
less anchored where might we go?

Resonance

this is what has saved me today.
listening. not thinking or wondering

or doing anything from a list.
(not that I've ever made a list.)

I am a rod of reception on the earth.
one tall skinny ear to hear

by resonance. I am rezzz-onating.
electromagnetically awake

shrugging off purpose because function
found is purpose. everything else follows.

this is what has saved me today.
beyond earth's dome: no homeless or home.

Snow in May

hundreds of dandelion seeds
dally around. pixie angels.
brownian motion. freestyle ballet.
about to land then off again
or deftly dropping as to a target.

a twosome catches on my shirt.
I blow them on. I blow them apart.
apologizing as they follow
separate itineraries.
destiny or tampering?

late afternoon sun
cause some to phosphoresce.
transfigured for a few moments.
life within the light without
dazzling and razzling.

imagine a dome overhead.
my neighborhood a snow globe.
a slow metaphorical gale:
grace of thought free and fruitful
through a world absent fear.

Musing in Meter

a dinner plate slipped my hand and broke.
is there a message within that for me?
or its a reflection of me
or no correlation at all.

imagine what its like to be that plate.
quantity present as before
yet having lost usefulness and meaning.
a lost meaning for me anyway.

when the wind tore off my front screen door
I wondered if it had to do with me
or just about a door in the way of wind.
the former makes me special. not the latter.

the latter puts me in position of witness:
audience of broken plate and door.
but if they have to do with me I'm cause
of how their fate's interpreted to me.

its easy to assume the broken plate
as an eventful part of my story.
when I'm a witness only there's no story
with moi at the center of a plot.

the plate can symbolize a larger story
if I view it as like something else -
whatever has lost usefulness and meaning -
then a metaphor. poetry.

art: enjaip / photobucket

Grack Grack

one of my cats let out a wobbly whine:
grackles out on the lawn grack-ling.
or whatever it is grackles do.

if grackles grack, what is that in human
terms? Is it humans humaning?
we each our own interpretation of that!

its easier for a grackle to grack than
a human to hume: we think huming
complicated because we have chosen

sides. there are so many. today
I'm going to sit and allow true
attach to true before the day gets humming.

Shell Game

standing in a limpid tidal pool.
feet look small and smooth as when three.
toes as much a marvel as the shell --
pearlescent -- starboard my foot.
my toddler's hands too gauche to grab
the small fish darting between dazzles.
around the rocks a harem of seaweeds
slither to a gilled charmer of snakes.
raising the half-buried carapace
it hides most of my petite palm.
droplets create a drape of temporary
rainbowed gems though auroral white
begs no other adornment. The tide creeps
toward my knees. neck nicely toasting.
turning I note the big beached shoes
of a grown self. garrulous gulls
ride the braised salt breezes lifting my hair.

An Iridescent Plume

if I only wear what I know
to be true, only speaking the same,

I could carry my cache of truth like
antlers, an iridescent plume,
a crest of red or snowy patch of fur,

have the air of a holiday tree with an
ornament for every verity gleaned
(one or one hundred) without explanation,

ease of awareness, no humiliation,
if I only share what I know.

Finches

golden finches light to chip
"what's imagined is what's made"
so at the very least may we
dream-design with heart inlaid

Cardinal Flint

that morning
passion to write --
cold ash

pulling on socks
the intervention began
just outside the window

it should have been a cinch
to see a crimson splotch
against unblemished snow

but I never spied - it
sang through my choice
of shoes flavor of yogurt

and what to thaw for lunch
cleaning the kitty box
sweeping the kitchen floor -

without intermission
clear . . crisp . . bright
as if piped inside

though still feeling chilled
I let the audible flint
strike a half-smile

before stuffing it into
my emergency pack
for sad poetic poops

Ten Again

three cats
near my chair,
city sirens
just finished testing
their whine of doom,
a few minutes
I am ten again
and Russia is coming
if one misstep's made
by no one I know
or my parents know,
wises me up
innocence frays:
the world is not safe
because I feel that way,
now I wonder if
feeling secure was
daily prayer
given unawares and
I can choose to
go back to -
in spite the news - aware.

Divine Use of Blue

 

rare, a blue jay in this neighborhood,
that mix of heaven and earth the hue of sky,
not a bully, just not sentimental,
unapologetic strength and charm,
surely a divine use of blue
though a sharp atonal messenger,
perhaps if human ears had broader range
jay's harsh rap would wax melodious

a song without a tune tough to ignore
plus it came from just outside my door,
"where earth and cosmos meet is every creature's
voice, lyrical or static or
uplifting or unsettling: one
of the four elements all
necessary, you listen up,
my credential if you need, the crest"
and thus addressed left me to this poem

Fugue It

 

my dears,

your birth an accidental fugue state
triggered by jumping into the vortex
of curiosity about moving
material by being material,
thoughts of hands-on divinity
insanely realized and you forgetting
the natural trajectory keeps
all of us safe from your worst
creations, though envying your best,
until a flash recollection reveals
the rabbit hole to be indeed a bridge

though, my dears, you can't retrieve the notes,
you are still existent in the one
or two themes threading your life barely
together in a semblance of design
that when recognizable by you
stirs the passion in which to fathom your face
(just as we do) and celebrate
its counterpoint in craftsmanship

sincerely

Routines

 


It takes a throne to make a princess
Out of a royalty-free girl:
Lifted to sit the covered half
Of the stove top, legs dangling,
Helped my gramma count the scoops of
Hillls Brothers into the pot
(Topped with a clear plastic knob
Where I could watch it percolate).

Every child, at least sometimes,
Should feel that indispensable.

Dali's Watch

one of those eternal feeling
mornings seeming centuries long
almost . . . time has been suspended

and I've lived entire lives
in spite the measured flow of hours
stretching like millenniums

until my eyes catch a clock
notice how its all but stopped
and with awareness relishing
elasticity of time

I'd sped nowhere at about
the speed of light after falling
into every moment making
the sum of them nearly one

hands and digits waiting for
the edge of it . . . to move them on

Including Mosquitoes

You can't claim you love children if
you only feed and protect your own,
you can't say my God is love is life
and willingly take the breath of others,
you can't say I appreciate Earth
until your circle of life includes mosquitoes.

remembered

still morning
slate sky

light snow
dallies down

a remembered
inexpressible tenderness

gently covering
all not itself

Once or Twice Removed

always be wary
of perceptions that make
what is unbearable, bearable

we are too good at
buffaloing ourselves
into believing that

there is love greater
than our capacity
to hold and extend

so we create what
can contain an immensity
we claim beyond us

love once removed
is the universal
story which we write

in various cultural versions
each vowing they are
true history

ensuing arguments
justify hate
even the killing of children

spawning adjusted perceptions
to make what's more unbearable
a burden we must bear

in this world of sorrow
we perpetuate
by pawning love to gods

settling for romance
or sexual intricacies
or the rush of good deeds

love twice removed

Fifty-Fifty

as much light to eyes as darkness
transitioning from day to night,
a half-life of relationships
as bold romance waxes cold,
seconds in spring and summer equal
when cycling seasons pass the baton,
in the moment things are even
what has come is what has gone;
without one set point toward another
we'd never know the half of it,
the measurement of space and minutes
which our body does so well
serves to shape our outer limits,
but when change is fifty-fifty -
the fixed fulcrum steady played -
in this matrix of material
mind is not at all constrained.

picture: lovebug3034/photobucket

No Cell Left Behind

Truth being a bar code
then Reason the bar code reader,
yes, it is that simple
for Reason can only read Sane

Saneness is the conscious
reflection of Truth in man,
consequently Reason
shares Truth's priority:
our commonality . . .

together They ensure
a greenhouse for every
cell of Life, even
those which seem inert

to validate fake
codes as true-enough
is a trick we call
(a b r a c a d a b r a)
rationalization, or
its twin justification

either can compromise
our commonality
for uncommon gains