Poems by JakTraks

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.

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.

The Muffler

It muffles our activity
when deep,
mutes our boots and tire treads
(but squeaks),
shawl draped over the stark of trees
at sleep,
wraps our homes with ivory scarves
on eves.

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.

Capture

 

When I was a girl, my cousin and I
caught butterflies in dimestore nets,
pinned their wings on cotton-covered cardboard,
(my cousin hoped to grow up a scientist).

I, not interested in latin labels,
thought to keep their beauty for my own:
a grasp the length of futility,
and still grieves me it cannot be kept.

Older, I thought usurping life for knowledge
equal to the distance of our fall -
the reason we surmise the need for grace;
Now my net herds a flight of words,

capturing what remains unfixable
within elasticity of sounds
that when sounded again: flutters again
for part of a moment, the essence of life on wings.

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.

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.

Sars Report

humans enter their lives
wanting..... love me tender
then teach children.... you've got
to hide your love away

while hoping to be seen
a..... carnival of light
not unique with others
but a ..... sun king alone

if not that..... twist and shout
poor me..... I'll cry instead

all eyes are also I

I loves to play the game
called..... what goes on goes on
and plays it unto death
besides..... all things must pass

I measures everything

result..... I'm a loser
and rationalizes
the..... things we said today
until they sound OK

they are more like..... this boy
less of..... Michelle my belle
though balance is shifting
yet..... the fool's on the hill

like angels have told us
humans are endearing

they're..... mother nature's son
wanting all her seasons
without checking reason
thus its..... a hard day's night

telling one another
we..... should have known better
but we still don't so it's
..... a long and winding road

I have been telling them
this..... all you need is love
that is not a feeling
wake..... sweet little sixteen

heart will have the vision
.... eight days a week, you'll see

perception tricks the I

..... want to know a secret
Reason is a compass
unto..... good day sunshine
when you..... love love me do

..... dig it..... think for yourself

unfortunately they
all say..... don't bother me
though..... I'm looking through them

that's all from..... nowhere man
except to say I crave
this thing called chocolate
will bring some back with me

ob-la-di ob-la da

Sars

Pages

In the book of my life
there is a chapter called
I'd Rather Not Remember

You know the one - its in your book too

But of course we do remember
this most vivid section of all

The following chapter's named
Lessons Learned - hopefully
it has as many pages as
I'd Rather Not Remember

Hopefully I'd Rather Not Remember
is added to less as we age

If Lessons Learned is fatter than
I'd Rather Not Remember - you've been
way too hard on yourself -
go now - rob a bank

Journals of Possible

I have three journals
never written in,
probabilities
on each clean page,
no words, smudges, cross outs,
paper folded or torn,
no idiotic phrases
better left unborn,
all clean, pristine,
no beauty there or beast,
but a feast of all
things twinkling,
unshaped, in someone's eye.

 

 

 

New Moon

as lovers walk the beach tonight
this new moon must be moot to them:
not tripping over tips of waves,
lost in depths of love-struck eyes.

knowledge its there does not enhance
desired romantic ambience, and
though there's nothing wrong with props,
highs that sensual pleasures drop,
resilient relationships every eve
put faith in the flux of tides.

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.

 

Left Unturned

a few acres of natural prairie grass,
at least seven feet tall,
weeds and wild flowers sewn
colorful buttons on a Khaki coat.
all undulates. rose-gold sun.
insects whir whine and huzz while
larks bray bits of a larger verse.

Buddha held a lotus blossom,
I’m held by this wild wheat,
flower guide still in my pack: there is
no name for the nectar of native presence,
though plow-diminished, still exists
here where soil is left unturned.
 
only indigenous flora-fauna expected
to flourish, no seed meddling,
no trimming, weeding or foreign foods
bleeding through to roots in land
now uncultivated. only
a few acres blessed and let alone.

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.

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."

Brink, Plink and Think

Jax slinks to the bowl
swipes a paw across the brink
litter in his drink

Java to the sink
jumps up to drink faucet drops
before they ker-plink

M J stops to think
before deigns to take a drink
lynx philoso-fur

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?

Cicada Crescendo

walking a warm august evening
serenaded by cicadas.
their loud and harsh symphonic whine
triggering a life review
of dog-days past. moving close
a crescendo of greeting.
decrescendo of disappointment
as I leave each tree behind.

sometimes one stands out from the
cacophony of temolo --
buzzing higher, brasher, longer.
a soloist curtained by leaves.
absent are any movements
other than my own. just one
long song threading all
balmy summer sundowns.

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.

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.

It's Only God Bowling

 

quintessential thunderstorm. last night.

I watched its electric fireflies,
felt the rolling-olling-olling thunder.
dad once said its only god in heaven
bowling-owling-owling another strike!

older, I pictured gods and goddesses
in throes of dirty dancing, strobe lights
flashing, wine flowing freely as the
rush of rain sluicing the house gutters.

Today I am kindred spirit with storms.
I'm a like effusion of electro
mag-juice fused in carbon matter -
not as loud - and with a slower sizzle.

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.

Incognito

the fan looks left - then right - then left,
vigilant for stale air.
like a royal hand it waves.

radar scanning my private life.
whose giant eye have I
brought into my home this summer?
through it watching a movie of
myself tolerating myself.

a god's ear masquerading,
listening to the baby-way
I talk love to my cats, and
belly-belch after dinner.

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.

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.

Into the Starry Night with R. Frost

a roguish yellow balloon
rose, I jumped to follow
past our clouds and moon
into van Gogh's night

so much trouble traveling:
imitating speed of ascent
too slow too fast, behind then past
finally to sync it right

the backdrop of stars my
single clue to movement
and which of us was moving?
whichever, we slowed

to stillness. the balloon
blossomed into a spiral of crystal
(so it appeared to me)
and like a fairy there, then gone

a door of light lit near
into which is where
conception handicrafts and
knows its own invention

anyone would find it queer
yet who will know my mind's up here
this the promise I must keep
with pen in hand to see and speak

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.

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.

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.

So Below

this open flower is the universe
facing itself. grounded satellite:
stem anchored in the Earth's core
while its beauty ascends beyond light
to the mystery of original pulse;
perhaps before that. the meadow is
in heat with its self. time and light
have spun slow and slower into these
cerulean dipped petals. A grounded guise
of skies and illusive blue moons.

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.

View from the Skybox

seeing myself sitting in the heavens --
cross legged -- a giant hologram
wrapped in a blanket of all tribes.
half moon of stars shoulder to shoulder.
it could just as well be you. or you.

admiring our cerulean roost
all the symbols on the blanket buzz
at once a cacophony and choir.
throughout the cosmos all the suns flash
paparazzi style. nothing is taken.

feeling comes in quantums of loose love.
my left arm stretches out to touch the Earth
the right reaches behind chasing an edge.
expansion is the moniker of elation.
from everywhere the giggling of children.

Black Jaguar

a piece of night slipping through the night,
but for the citrus-blazed eyes: stealth,
cloaked as wizard of mysteries withheld
silence slides on metal muscle, all grace
sheening through ivory patches of moonlight
minding her turf meticulously, prowling
in luxury of dire light-speed and power.

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.