Wintry Pomes and the Wind that Follows
By Jake Walker
This book was made
And meant to ponder
Each page a road
For you to wander
And I Rose
Kodiak trails, needle nose grass
The pond off the road resembling glass;
Puffs of cool air, ice like my stare,
I am running late for my class--
Icicle shingles, and chill Jack Frost tingles
Nipping and biting your nose
I’m still donning my shirt and I tripped and it hurt
And a half hour late, I rose--
And I’m squishing and smooshing a lunch together;
Defrosting my car due to inclement weather
Squealing tire over ice, slipping and sliding ‘cross streets
Ready to pay the price, and taste these unfortunate treats
Winter was never quite my season
And allow me to tell you the exact reason
It’s not the first time that I’ve been late for class
And I can guarantee you, that it will not be my last
---
Snowflake
Ice diamond
Frosty gem
Kaleidoscopic dream
Hexagonal faeries,
The piercing twinkle
Of Nature’s symmetry
Fall from the heavens
Fall down below
Fall on young anxious tongues
Let it grow colder
Shall you rest on my shoulder?
What higher praise can be sung?
I pack you with gloves
Like an ice sculptured dove
And let you fly quite suddenly
You whistle through air
Past snowmen, past dogs
Hit like a Frisbee someone unaware--
---
Scarf
My Shroud of Turin
My placebo noose
My coiled ruse, my numb, floppy fin
My tattered cloth snake
Rainbow death at your wake
Swallowed by color
And pretentious class
Dogs hunt you, cats reach for the thread
just promise you won’t close
In car doors, promising more
Warmth, rather than premature death
So snuggled, my chin rests from within
You choke hold me, I breath your hairs
Dressing in cotton, and shedding my cares
---
Jan. 18th, 2010
Quick game of catch and already
There’s that mile long stare--
My little warrior--his little, yellow ball
Decorated all over with Transformers
And what utility! What utility!
He exhibit’s a verse all his own
He swings his leg--the foot connects
The ball sails over my head
A joyful sound his laugh is;
Knows he not the laws of nature
But he delights in its manipulation
Tucking his shirt in to keep
His pants from sagging too low
And his pockets bunny ear,
Spilling over,
As if to seal the pristine image
Of sacred boyhood, O how cherished!
Its zeal, its timelessness, its vigor
Its raw, vital power
Who would’ve thought he was a kicker?
And are we in the cleft of middle America--
Two boys just tossing a ball?
One is a son, the other
A father and son--and is this
What we do--someone who knows not
Teaching and leading and guiding someone
Who knows even less?
The patches of snow stubbornly remain
From December--Ice like dunes on
Lawn like patchwork
A mother and child stroll on beside us,
To take out the trash and I ask
Is this love, fulfilling our role?
Is this love?
Is this that majestic thing called love?
Is it love?
---
Unforgiving Days
Gently, to your places tread and creep
Past snow-covered birch, for thought of sleep
The noble bear, the graceful fowl, the wart skinned frog
Meet with slumber this harsh winter and dismal fog
Dream the animal kingdom all across the land
Nestle tight unto your earthen beds of mud and dirt and sand
The trails are frozen over and the boughs are icy lain
Now is no time for harvest of corn or wheat or grain
‘Tis now the time for sleeping in a cave or underground
Let nothing bother the hibernation, no chill or windy sound
For you must rest ye animals, rest until the sun
Shows his face, gives of his heat and says, “It is begun.”
It’s here in trembling dreams
That all the wilderness seems
To be that sacred notion
Of solitary extremes
With each timid creature
Hiding each and every feature
I wait until the weather wears away
These cold and distant, unforgiving days--
---
Heresy
Such indignation
Because I don’t even know what it means
Because it has not yet occurred
The knowledge of such is vacant
Because I know not of my potential
The source of my power is vacant
Because it has not yet occurred
I can’t even tell if I’m real
Because I can’t even tell if I’m real
I know not of my potential
Such heresy
Because I have not even seen my true face
What posture--what expression--is mine?
Because it taunts me night and day
My face is contorted in anguish
Such heresy in not knowing my true face
I think I’ve seen it
But I’m so easily self-manipulated
Because I’m so easily self-manipulated
I can’t even tell if I’m real
Because I don’t know if I’ve seen my true face
I know not of it ever having occurred
The knowledge of such is vacant!
I can’t even tell if I’m real!
---
My Conformity
They say, I have heard, ‘the apple does not fall far from the tree’
It nestles under the branches’ lazy shade
But I ask this ‘They’, ‘does that saying apply to me
When I, myself, have conventional wisdom forbade?’
I would posit a negative, the words are not universal
I’ve tried my damndest to be myself and none other
And perhaps what I say might be quite controversial,
But I don’t even see anyone else as a brother
Be it spiritually or in just the human form,
I see not one person near me as similar
Ever since that graven day that I was born
Only my reflection has been familiar
Amidst the human race I cannot yet relate
It’s what makes me identical to all else God creates
---
Haiku
Pebbles line the stream
Ice chunks float under the bridge
Nature comes en masse
The Problem with Painting
I cannot get this winter scene right
It’s the brush, it’s the paints,
This cursed fence and its
Texture; why acrylics?
Why did I choose acrylics?
Because they dry
Faster than most other paints
And that’s good because you
Can work in haste
In haste--
But haste is my problem
And this fence this fence
Are you sure it isn’t railroad tracks?
Why can’t we all just slow down,
And appreciate each singular
Fencepost?
With pleasure, I add
Another layer to the sky--
Focusing my attention elsewhere,
Where it really isn’t needed
It’s like freezing right now,
I’ve lost myself in the white meadows
But notice that deer
Notice that deer
Are those antlers on his head,
Or handlebars?
---
Stimulus
See how money from this waste sky-rocketed
And how quietly the dividends all were pocketed
The bankers, the barons, the makers all profit
But the riflemen march out to ‘allegedly’ stop it
So now our livelihood is found in blood money
To arms dealers; shipbuilders, ‘tis sweeter than honey
Those from on the upper crust prosper and thrive
Whilst legions of men pave the way with their lives
We are told it’s too preserve democracy
So we’re shipped out--deployed--with great efficacy
To stand up to corrupt foreign leaders and powers
Staunchly adhering to the commands of ours
But what lawful order is there in war
When an offensive state manipulates to settle a score?
We’re trained to fight, not how to think or how to feel
To champion an empty symbol; a false ideal
And patriotism is a ruse to mask it all
“I want you.” we hear, “For Duty calls.”
Steel and powder again and again receive vast earnings
And our young generation now miles away towards peace are yearning
We’re no more than gangsters for capitalists
Together becoming the great ignorant altruist
Through blizzard and storm and quake and flood
We generate cash flow to our bosses, in exchange for shed blood
---
Remnants
Remnants of Bethlehem
Reveal themselves
In slow-motion rain
Blues, purples, reds--
They dance in my eyesight
and when night comes
They are molded by starlight
The wondrous spectacle beheld
again and again
---
Sanctus Solemn
Walking not talking--Brick
Sidewalk chalky shaded
Outline moss and grass with dew shine
Friends are out, wandr'ng 'bout
Full of the wine, I'm sure
And the geckos of the night
With padded sheen feet
Climb side vinyl housing sideways
In a suburbian Israel
O Holy Land!
Jerusalem! Bethlehem!
Lead me oh gods, by your stench!
An aroma of sweet cashew nut
And cocoa--and, in the winter,
A bread made of nothing--
Yes, I walk about these days
With a green light meaning Demon,
And a red light meaning STOP!--
The friends are delirious
Subdued and swayed
Influenced by various pills they pop
And it's dark; and it's cold;
A bit murk-murk-murky
"We shall be a city 'pon a hill!"
And we are--a dazzling ionic glow
Flows like riverbed droppings
Oranges (quite real, I assure you)
Pass through lips, tongue, and teeth
And the dead are underground
With tombstones and a wreath.
Fur coat mistresses, scarf and all,
Walk by night to address hello
Where they've once been many years ago
And the cracks in the sidewalk
Reveal a history of steps
Unmeasured and uncharted; a mess--
With each caress, the Visigoths pass
Through life with barely an idea
Of what's accomplished
And the friends see the world
O Holy is thy Land!
Each ignorant friend
Is a mere means to an end--
Each one a stepping stone welding power
And yielding to none but a few
The steps I walk as a monster
At night,
Prove my power
Severely subdued--
---
Astronaut Eulogy
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
My mantra was
To Mars or bust
Yes,
‘Twas bust,
‘Twas bust
But on this you can trust
Die if I must
I find it rather just
To die with my trust
In my Mars or bust lust
---
Like the Crickets
Like a soft-feathered eagle
Upon his hilltop throne
I own this world—I am one
With all
When I find myself alone
Like the solemn ant
Always working
Always working
And like the crickets outside
Midnight chirping
Midnight chirping
I am but an animal
My brain functions like
Any other
Butterflies are my sisters
And owls, my wise
Brothers
Tell me what you have to say
Eagle, ant, and owl
I am one with everything
And there is only now
---
Whickett Bluff Park
‘Twas nine in the eve,
All I could do was conceive
Of a journey; a mission
To my own jurisdiction
Where would I venture
In this night so dark?
I dreamed of escaping
To Whickett Bluff Park
I equipped my essentials—
A man with few credentials—
My world, I wished to leave
To a place seen only in dreams
I stepped timidly many lengths
Bidding farewell to fellow pool sharks
The stars vibrantly lit the way
To Whickett Bluff Park
Chalky, brittle walkways;
Outside chill that lasts for days—
I warmed my bones, the night shone black
Strapped to my shoulders, a red worn backpack
I was almost there, I instinctively knew
Gnarled trees with tiger stripe bark
Grass gleamed with crystalline dew
And I saw the entrance to Whickett Bluff Park
Once there, the stars twirled and churned
Bouncing off one another, they laughingly burned
The trees spoke the code of conduct—twigs gently waved
I wanted to stay, so I obeyed
I laid down to the crunch of grass
Off in the distance, the sound of a lark
Brown of the oaks displayed like brass
In this dreamy place, Whickett Bluff Park
My back on the grass became wet
I dreamed of little lavender jets
Flying below a cosmic flame
A tranquil place where existed no blame
Was this place lost to mortal eyes
This park of Whickett Bluff
I learned the soul never truly dies
It merely leaves when it’s had enough
A friend quietly approached,
I warned, “Don’t encroach!”
“I’m here the same reason you are,” he said,
“To discover the things that are lost in my head.”
“Ok,” I nodded, confirming his stay
Here in Whickett Bluff Park.
He was just like me in every way,
Looking to leave his mark
My friend lay down not far from me
I wondered if he saw what I could see
I closed my eyes, trying not to think
I was suddenly lost in an eternal blink
My eyes were opened when it was near twilight
My friend sat up; said, “My name’s Clark.”
I told him my name with stale words trite
We became drones of Whickett Bluff Park
Midnight was drawing near
I was beginning to think there was something to fear
Clark was digging a hole
Resembling a pesky, furry, restless mole
I looked upon him, curiously
“What’s that hole for, Clark?”
“Wait ‘til 12 and you shall see.”
At midnight in Whickett Bluff Park
When the hole was completed; Clark’s work done
We looked at the sky—triumphant ones
“Midnight is coming close,”
He said, his pale face looked gross
The last remaining minutes
Became last remaining seconds
When the waiting period finished
The sky opened up to us, and beckoned
The sky blew up at midnight
A sight that conjured much delight
I was lost in a daze
A borderline dangerous, trance-like craze
“Do not fear,
We are His friends,” cried Clark
Out of the woods arose a deer
In the open, in Whickett Bluff Park
The deer in all its majesty
(the sky splashing colors resplendently)
Trotted towards Clark’s pre-emptive hole
The animal feasted from it like a little salad bowl
“What is it?” I asked
“A magic mud that heals the spirit.”
From the mud came a raccoon masked,
I wanted to touch it, wanted to get near it
The raccoon climbed a tree
And pointed towards eternity
The raccoon, I saw, was leading the way
The way to where the world had no days
“Do we venture, do we follow?”
Clark nodded, a confirmation
The doubts in my throat, I had to swallow
I marveled at the situation
We climbed the tree
Clark moving in front of me
When we reached the top, brilliant light on our face
We were witness to a fantasy, far away place
“The hole was to release the animals within,
They know the way even in the dark.”
Now our enlightenment can truly begin
In this heavenly Whickett Bluff Park
“What of the mud that heals the soul?”
“We’ve no time for that, we’ve got to go!”
I looked upon the neon abyss
I knew that it promised a spiritual bliss
I desired this place more than anything ever
But still I said, “I’m going back.”
To be rid of desire was my true endeavor
So with that I shouldered my red worn backpack
“Goodbye,” I waved to Clark
‘Twas fun here in Whickett Bluff Park
“Will you ever return; will I see you again?”
Regardless, we are now most compassionate friends
I passed the entrance and passed the trees
Dawn I saw was slowly taking over night
The winter air was cool, with a slight, fresh breeze
And I knew my choice to return was right
---
St. Isley
The gravy old man in delivery
Dined
Full of the wine
On spinach dip chips
Salted encrusted
The meat
was
rare
To touch such a dish
The man did not dare
He lived a polished life
Living so lively
He went home
walking
Through the streets
of
St. Isley
---
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.02.2010
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