Poems by JakTraks

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

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.

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.

Solo Cello

Voice of deep forest floors:
roots, stems, trunks of
deciduous and the conifer,
soft moss and wrinkled lichen,
pale mushrooms,
half-hidden lady-slippers and bluebells,
fallen leaves mysteriously moved
by small forest foragers,
bushes quivering from
flits of clandstine songbirds,
tang of ancient earth
mixed with pine and
decaying detritus,
insects huzzing,
slow slither of snakes around trees,
canopy cooled,
damp with daytime dusk, the
felt possibility of coming across
clans of gnomes,
winding paths and no path,
thick dropped limbs to rest on.

My Music Is In . . .

My music's in the hand-off of seasons
distinct, and of those demure,
the run of even the smallest wave -
its slow, muted slip-sliding home;
in the constant flow of horizon
as I spin our web of life,
shifting hues of blue in skies,
chaotic patterns of cirrus clouds;
in journeys from seed to sturdy stalk -
grains, grasses, and breath-taking blooms,
water stirred by groupers and great whites,
jellyfish, snails, the saltwater seals;
in the brush of breezed-on leaves,
thrash of thick limbs whipped in gales,
percuss of prairie's wild hooves and
flat-footed fowl slapping my shores;
shape-shifting dunes of nomadic sand;
in the freeze of rambling rivers,
tinks of melting ice dripping
to earth spongy from later snows,
listen to . . . feel my music,
its rhythms scored in your cells as well -
same notation of elements;
like it or not, the same song.

Sideways

perhaps the heart's way
from point to point
is convoluted,
evoluted,
like vines in and out,
around, back through,
down again then up,
sideways,
mingled, tangled, dangled,
delightful . . .

we glide into this world
exhilarated,
land and turn to find
an aluminum slide,
short and straight, a finite
section of stem,
rigid remnant of
the journey . . .

but nature belies Euclid's
measured ruse:
though our shapes be simple,
path is not,
the thread of each life
continues to vine
after we slip into
a midwife's hands.

 

Schizophrenia . . .

slowly saunters down the block in July
wearing an unwashed parka the color of poppies

tunes into a private radio station
fm funny or  . . .  fm frightening

heads toward the corner 24/7
to purchase several packs of cigarettes
with money meant to garner this month’s food

evades the stare of customers and clerks
who see the world through the eyes of "normal."

Sundays Past

Sunday mornings my dad drove
in khaki pants and white t-shirt
my brother and I to Sunday school.
an hour later he came to retrieve.
mom had likely shouted, "Richard,
time to pick up the kids, now!"
during our hour of prayer he would
watch TV, smoke a couple,
drink a cup of Folgers black.
though now I am more suspicious.
while I was reading bible stories
brimming with lessons from God,
was dad bubbling over into mom?
my moral education to them
a primal recess from parenting,
the four of us elevated
in our separate sacred ways.

Wave if You Get the Point

humans killing humans is insane,
courage and dedication to save
are not. Such is my dilemma on
days like the 4th of July.

you could say the Greek gods retired.
it might behoove us to let go
an archetype - staple of history -
or fence-in warriors on the field of life.

if you find that life itself is precious,
every dude and dudette also are.
would we get bored being a fighting force
bent on lifting our self and others up?

in case you hadn't heard we're quantum beings
for being separate points and ocean waves,
all of us have ably mastered point-hood
unto death, yet we're seas and oceans

and the rivers running toward them both.
as a whole we stink at doing wave-hood
though a point is a point to no one
if it is the lone-grain on the beach.

all of this leads one to consider
a peaceful world will indeed be new
in ways we already see and imagine,
ways we are not able yet to fathom.

Grateful for What I Have But . . .

being mindful of helping others
cannot subdue the lifelong longing
to literally look at time I've spent,
hold it, read it, hear it, share it.
some essence made material.

i put my best effort into
writing profiles and treatment plans,
facilitating therapy groups.
it all runs like watercolors
over-watered into a wash.

my growing up has always seemed
a loaf of Wonder Bread, the
flour stripped of innate goodness
replaced with added nutrients.
still bread. edible.
but hardly a feast of living grains.

life is not disappointing.
feeling manufactured is.

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.

Two Memorial Days

Memorial Day. I have double vision.
I see the pride and pain of serving country.
my emotions rise to marching bands.
wistful. I think of my grandparents
and my father. proud that he served
by draft to safeguard my mother's womb.

I see the divisiveness of borders.
of children growing up without one parent
or children growing up not at all.
antique rituals of dress and flag.
people united in sentimentality of song
and experience and prejudice.

I see tradition lovingly passed on
in the girl on her father's shoulders
waving the flag. I know desire to honor
a lain down life and those who have survived.
special attention deserved for ones who served
as part of something bigger than themselves.

I see the never ending futility.
solution without ever resolution.
blindness thinking this is how it is
passing to another generation.
doing the same thing the same thing
strangely hoping the outcome a novel color.

I see the priority of defense
and the strategy of an offense.
the grief-need to honor torn bodies.
countless broken hearts. seared minds.
empathy for bravery on all fields.
thrilled to live. guilty of going home.

I see how many fathom nothing else
as if this movie's different than before
and must be played be played to victory.
compassion and respect are human rights.
we can take them back untying god
from our foolishness. our foolishness.

And So It Grows

the lady's wearing grape-green lacy
chiffon that blooms in April's warming winds

revealing yet awhile some broken branches,
a nest and knots, balding bark spots
almost hid when soon she closes her long-
sleeved blouse through the topmost button

appearing again a siren of steamy summer --
an aging woman knows -- by putting it on

Cats Grazing

Today my cats are in grass heaven.
Lawn service hasn't started yet
leaving the yard a lush feline pasture,
long enough to please horses and cows
(except I don't have any of those).
My cats turn their head to the side
chewing a good chunk of blade off.
Most of it will be regurgitated:
a juicy green cud on my carpet.
But my cats are in grass heaven.

April and Autumn Trends

The adolescents are budding fresh frocks
below the still bare grand dames
who know the first dressed are first to let
it down around their ankles when frost returns
smiting at once the least experienced
while knobby matriarchs hold their hues
after pioneer flakes sequin
their seasoned yellow, rust and reddish dress
above the teens dreaming April trends.

Little Ladies

in April
tall flowering bushes -
branches crinoline -
twirl in their lacy
Easter dresses, white
or violet, in Spring's
pearlescent light

Unexpected Tribute

tall green trash bins
stand sentinel - each side -
for this cavalcade of one

branches wave, leaves applaud

the stout school crossing guard
flags me by

keepers at the drive-through gate
nod in recognition -
a goblet of dark roast
handed over in salute

a stop light that is never green
is evergreen
until this parade passes

exiting to the expressway

Signaling

Even were I the one lighthouse
he'd not steer by this shore,
would not row the frigate's skiff
to rap the lighthouse door.

It is the light he cannot bear,
he'd rather sail without
shoals and shore-rocks well defined,
the jagged reefs found out.

Still I signal visit me,
there's nothing I ask of you
but you're charming presence here,
the rest, be sure, is through.

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.

Heavy Lotion

One good thing at turning 57
I like odd years better than the even,
My sister likes the even more than odd
But then its just a number, isn't that right(?)
Its just a number but a bigger one
Than any of my birthdays come before;

What's gone down(?) amount of felt compassion
Given to my self or any other,
Its become more a fact than feeling
A principle of we are all-as-one
Except where animals are concerned, for them
I was not endowed with a filter
But am with them nerve endings raw;

My patience shrunk wide as my lanky legs
Though talent for pretending it intact, and
Letting go what's out control helps me
Maintain precious peace of heart and mind
(I can't believe how sappy that sounds, yet true);

It is sad that I no longer digest
Fried, runny, scrambled eggs or boiled,
Those same spots I watched my mother get
Found my hands(!) on me they're merely freckles
Which have always crossed my cheeks and nose
Still coming to fore with summer suns;

Toe nails are harder, some veins neon blue,
As if on cue rice paper skin
Here and there, not yet everywhere, and
Still amenable to heavy lotion;

I am ever so proud to have cultivated
Vast reserves of immaturity,
Though I creep-up on the moniker "old fart"
My imagination's barely three
(We all can visit there forever young)
And I must say I still look hot when wearing
daring swimming suits - from fifty yards
At dawn of dusk on a cloudy day.

Momentarily Miffed with My Muse

My muse must have taken a break today
It would have been nice being notified of this
So I'm writing without my muse's ways
And when returns I'll say, Were you gone?
Why I've been steeped in poetic bliss
While you ate grapes lounging in your thong;

I read this poem aloud and heard, YOU ARE MIFFED
I WOULD BE TOO IF THIS MY TIME HAD WROUGHT
WITHOUT MY HELP YOUR MIND'S CAUGHT IN A HAZE;

OK OK this is a stupid song
when you take one day off your thought is missed
Your short vacations feel unbearably long
Happy now? without you all is naught;

YES, AND NOW I'M HOPING THAT YOU'VE HEARD
A POEM IS MADE WHEN LIGHT AND MATTER KISS
WITHOUT YOU LINES WOULD HAVE NO PLACE TO GO;

Thank you, and now I'm having the final word.

art above: alisa_crowley / photobucket

A Bedskirt Costs Half an Hour

I never thought it
would take half an hour
to find an ivory bed skirt
in a store
(what a bore)

why would I think
to find them in
with pillowcases,
shouldn't I see
their own category,
separate displays or rack?

Knowing they had
to sit there somewhere -
cruised the bedding aisles,
refusing to leave
empty-handed I
willed the skirt to be

with stubbornness
in desperation
again looked thoroughly
though boxes and boxes
of pillowcases
and lo, one almost bit me

Artifacts

With Kodak Brownie, harbinger of truth,
Snapped a shot the house then housing my youth,
Gray shingled two-story place, peaked roof,
Steep front lawn, white windows, well-worn stoop.

Over years the image yellowed and dimmed
Developed cracks and rips along its rim,
Freckled with spots where the surface thinned
It ceased to represent its origin.

Though the pic was wrecked it still existed,
I had kept the strips of negatives,
The picture was made new, a chemical mix
Restored a moment in time that time can't fix.

Recently I had it digitized
Like magic hitting "enter" will re-size,
Cut out parts, copy, colorize,
Send it via air waves it survives.

From albums on the Web (our global Louvre)
We printout photos anytime we choose,
Yet what's captured continues once removed
As old bones to life, to living, clues.

Time Magician

At a cabin on a lake,
Three . . Whole . . Days . .
being my silent mantra thought
with at least the frequency
of passed highway mile markers,
it later deflected rising ire
searching most of that first day
for a decent vacancy.

We "should have had a reservation."

Two whole days and they were mine,
Two . . Whole . .Days . .
the reduced mantra pretending
extra minutes to the hour
in our cabin, faded yellow
top a small hill off the water,
skipping stones on the rocky beach
my brother and I invited the sun.

I'm so lucky, another day,
One . . More . . Whole . . Day
of sitting at the drop to shore
awash in crass cries of gulls
below the fleeting forms of clouds,
later explored the tide's edge,
dad's small catch fried for supper.

We packed and shoved off early morning
a rolling six-pack: dad's parents,
my parents and younger brother,
me - happily free from trying
to conjure more of what would pass -
began sweeping three whole days
of eggshells off new memories.

Possible Presence

The neighborhood has been
on polar pause,
yesterday's snowfall
safe in the icy
breathless blue air.
Piled snow from plows
and shovels define the paths
of my daily life:
a map of possible presence,
like trails of masons and quarks
in accelerators.
Pick any spot
within the glacial outline,
I may not be there now
but there I have been;
visible again
depending on who's looking
and how, from where and when.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Alternate Endings

Rumi wrote his poems from Heaven
Frost penned at his farm,
Whyte writes from an inner edge
Dickinson from the heart.

Different places, yet the same,
Still I'd like to know
Where I write from most the time,
Where Muse and I are one.

Perhaps I write on top a bridge
(Perhaps the bridge: my poems),
To my right is cosmic flight
To my left are stones.

Underneath, mystery flows
Its running quiets soul,
Wind stirs embers in the mind --
Muse begins to row.

Poles of paradox: rock and space
By them I'm torn apart,
But on this bridge where two are one:
My Muse and I find art.

[alternate ending]
My muse and I both fart.

So Far Friday

Breakfast, coffee and book;
bought a new rug for the bathroom,
a carpet sweeper, cat food,
socks-undies-camisole, batteries.

Its a green sweeper meaning
powered by a human,
the blue-green rug matches the bath better,
batteries tucked-in the monoxide alarm,
filling one cupboard - a fancy feast,
the rest still on my bed:
Hanes hi-cuts white as the camisole,
brown socks, black socks,
beige cream gray and striped.

Minestrone soup for lunch, spilled some,
peanut butter sandwich for desert,
ferried out the garbage,
greenly swept the dark brown carpet
free of stray litter and cat hair
like the box said it would,
and that's my day so far.

Slow Saturday

partly sunny today -
a few leaves begin to turn,
groceries just put away,
cats lazy and lounge;

feelings soft, silent
as the neighborhood,
passion rises for a nap
but longs for fire.

Dentist Haiku 2

the only person
to grant me a golden crown
bows to my cuspid

The Day After

yesterday cleaned-up
the piles all over my desk
can't find anything

Odette to Sunday

coffee is brewing
hair is bad but I don't care
it must be Sunday

napping with the cats
waking up at 10 a.m.
gotta love Sunday

mind is wandering
lands on novel I'm reading
three cheers for Sunday

brushing cat hair off
my pants then check my planner
thinking of Monday

Stone Words

language cannot convey
the depth breath beauty or challenge
of poets' felt vision
yet poets persist

it is a mountain to climb
seemingly impossible
but you take the first word and begin
climbing resting struggling
exhilaration - moments when it seems
you'll make the point

then the scaling feels endless
but you keep going for the moment
you can lift yourself up
and plant your signature

on top of the world briefly
knowing the wonder of it is still buried
in stoney words
yet the rock contains a light
never anticipated

Docks

It is being at the crack of dawn
finding the finger-hold of dusk
the beginning and end at once
that is never seen before its gone,
you know it's there
and that watching for it is futile
but you can be present with it
at the end of a dock with feet dangling,
in your periphery solid and liquid meet,
facing the shore we imagine birth
turning back toward the water
we can walk no further
but if we didn't need a turn,
if we faced both ways,
the edge of the dock would be one thing.

My Service

last night
putting away my stoneware and "silver"
I realized
they'd been in my service
35 years
since my first apartment

a couple chips on plate and bowl
one has a stain
the shape of lips
a missing fork or two
three coffee cups sized for a doll house

think about it
all the times the spoons and forks
in and out of my mouth
bowls crusted with yesterday's oatmeal
times 35 years
one thousand six hundred seventy weeks

such a long relationship
with things appreciated but not loved:
I'm not into kitchen stuff
useful my criteria for utensil beauty

if I loved eating tools
would likely have replaced them all
by now
many times

Some Days

some days
I wake up in the a.m.
already tired of the world

we the people
of all countries
can utilize reason and instead

rationalize insanity
and say
that's the way things are

what we forget
is things are how they are
because we justify them

and I wonder
how much in my own life
is still a rationalization

Prepared for Paperwork

not looking forward the next two weeks
at work so I'm trying
not to look forward or back around

tomorrow the best I can do
I think
to keep my frequency resonant
with the perfume of a warm meadow
dotted with wildflowers
and bees pistol hopping for sweets
dragonflies hovering
darting an dipping
showing off florescent sheen
gold and green in the sun

yes
that will be my happy place
the next two weeks while trying to fill
insanity's bill for mental health

could I have written a sadder poem

June 5

a quintessential late spring day
lucky me
I get to play
no call list or meetings
no memos for reading
just me and the trees
catching some rays

Tree Friends

1
grande dame of the ball
long emerald velvet gown
beaded in brown cones

2
two tall matriarchs
wind tossing their thinning hair
dyed the tint of youth

3
Robert Frost swing set
sleek canoes slicing water
possibilities

4
shoulder to shoulder
five beauties flip their full skirts
dancing the can-can

5
neighborhood triplets
long mops and thin sturdy legs
too young for weeping

6
feigning middle class
impossible in the wind
silver is revealed

7
an aura of zeus
massively girded and armed
the block's guardian

8
on fire with belief
anarchists make their statement
not waiting for Fall

9
junior is tethered
in training for adulthood
stand up straight don't slouch

Fragment

What part of me wants to cry;
the sky is clear of clouds
the sun high and healing
breezes intermittent
bring cool to balance,

I see nothing that smacks
of drizzle or gloom, rather
a dazzling invitation from life
to life, yet

something within cannot partake,
perhaps it's been camouflaged
yellow and red
imitating this season's first
tulips and daffodils;

I will touch this fragment of grief
pretending to be some other beauty
so not to be left out
as it once must have been.

The Crab

did not enjoy my day at work
irritable inside
fillin' my role on the outside

did some breathing and yoga
a little qigong
even meditated briefly
reminded myself how fortunate
to be employed
laughed when I could
. . .  still crabby

a crab day
day of the crab
I like eating crab

Early Spring

I need a sweatshirt in my house
a t-shirt in the yard
typing this with bluish fingers
makes staying in very hard

an extra blanket on the bed
as if thirty below
my toes turn red inside my socks
like when shoveling snow

a pair of shorts hang by the door
for when I venture out
sink my bare feet in the grass
enjoy the tulips sprout

in two months when weather warms
the chill inside be gone
I'll sit here sweaty and complain
then turn the AC on