Poems by JakTraks

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.

 

 

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.

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

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

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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 salt
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 ice on soft skin,
For an instant the stab is icy hot,
Press of verity on trails 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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Down the Slide of Life on Waxed Paper

In grade school 1960's I was taught
in the second half of all our lives
brains lose cells
without regenerating,
the brain they said goes moldy, loses spark.

What a tightly wrapped box beliefs can be,
we didn't know that neuro-genesis
can happen even as our years wiz by
down the slide of life on waxed paper.

The old idea was a stultifying
inevitability. Lights off.
Now we know the current
flows into our future
holding open possibility.

Axioms all must end in question marks
or asterisks to signify a footnote:
though we know this to be true today
it could line the bird cage of tomorrow
for this is how it works: white pushes
black pushes white.

Sensitive beings seek to see and matter,
rational ones make discoveries,
mind moves to recreate itself --
the three shift perception and belief.

We stop a moment. Then seek to see some more.

A Sink Full of Paradise

For ten seconds
the dirty dishes in my sink were holy,
why then and never
again like that. Now I carry the knowledge:
the precious nature
inherent in plates, and our talent to witness
as a flyer for islands paradise,
allure of that one uplifted conversation --
a single perfect golf swing lets you play
for hopeful years, the rush to recapture.
Today the place
is looking most mundane (and dusty) so I
re-read the brochure,
bump-up the phrases in my mental bin,
relive the swing,
before washing my sink of ordinary.

Throwing Seed

It feels the bravest thing to do:
create your life as you want it
when the longing's not to hold a hand,
but throw seed into contrary winds
to fall where they may between blusters
taking root or not. Still, somewhere
in the one and only book of poets
every seed's possibility, recorded.

see artwork Here

Creative Fire

It is little good to sit
in a shimmying shapeless bonfire
throwing a wide
all encompassing circle,

if not also hosting a flame
come to a ragged point
through the crown of your head,
where bone was once soft.

Regarding the Whale

in my throat
swims a whale

spouting steam
jumping to heaven
and back

tremendous force
without hands
without legs

only the sea
carrying
where it will

my songs

Edges

Passion for God waxes
with our fear,
becoming a full moon
reflecting
all available light;
desperate hearts
may squeeze together
creating a high beam
to heaven.

Is this why
we scare each other
even to death,
letting fear for survival
bring us
to the edge of life,
a jolt out of numbness
for seconds
hours days or centuries
until we feel safe,
until safe becomes stagnant,
and the dance begins
once more.

What is it
that is better than fear
for bringing us
to the edge,
everyday,
with the threat not of falling,
but flying.

BIG BANG #2

laughter
is the savior with us,
alone or together
humor brings the fragments
into alignment,
for a brief space we are whole,

when wholeness lingers
we know what it is
to be whatever it is we are;
healing enters:
the pieces become
familiar with one another

creating scenes
not of suffering,
learning
there is no order to wholeness,
only movement
and mingling of bowls
full of jelly;

when all aspects at last
jiggle together,
working the same comic strip,
look out!
a big-bang of joy
will re-create the world.

Sir Chickadee and the Leaves

sir chickadee perches a branch
in the tree out front
his head snaps this and that way
to the beat of my heart,
he scolds me for this:
not sooner coming outside
this put-it-in-a-jar-and-save-it
august day.

the missus finds him
to share five minutes alone
planning nest upgrades
insectivore picnics,
my cat stares a black hole
through their arboreal universe
thwapping his tail on the grass.

its not like yesterday
when persistent winds forced secrets
from the neighborhood leaves
even as they shushed one another,
today the leaves bob on their branches -
buoys on calm water -
all talked out.

i close my eyes
feeling their gentle wave within
. . . within . . . within . . .
finding in the rhythm
delight, bright as the sun.

Creep and Eat Holes

you must creep little creepers
that is what caterpillars do
creep and eat holes in leafy greens
stretch - contract - chew

and so did I until the day
I wove myself a womb
wrapping past attempts to fly
around everything I knew

leaving it all suspended - hanging
a room without a view
wondering why so limited
when wanting the beauty of flight

anxious for a kiss of life
as well understanding wait
struggle and patience bundled tight
no room for insect bliss

until another nondescript day
wiggling to scratch an itch
was aware I'd made a tear
a bit of light slipped in

now I'm ever glad and grateful
my crawling self had learned
there wasn't anywhere to fall
though I knew not yet of wings

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