david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

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dance clown

wonderhouse series

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there are seven voices laughing in my soul and the eighth is weeping loudly.

there are seven voices laughing in my skull and the eighth is weeping loudly.

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Never mind the oranges.

All I want is shade.

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my pet shark

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My pet shark is quite unruly,  and won’t listen to a word I say.

I took it to shark obedience school––which cost a pretty penny, let me tell you––

but he didn’t respond.  It was practically as if he was completely unaware

of the training at all.   In fact, just between you and me,

some of the other sharks didn’t respond so well either,  and would go into a frenzy

every time instructor would try to feed them.

My poor shark.  I can’t take it anywhere.

Most of my friends won’t visit anymore…. they say they are allergic… Ha!

I’ll bet they aren’t allergic at all, I’ll bet they are just scared. . .

For no good reason, I might add, because it is not like I let him hang out

on the couch.

My shark’s name is Silly.  Because he does seem silly and restless and swims

back and forth and doesn’t respond to much of anything and hardly ever smiles.

Don’t tell him I said so, but I’m thinking of setting him loose,

I’m thinking of setting him free into the wide ocean somewhere,

and finding a pet that can offer a little more affection and interaction now and then.

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Looking for the heart of gratitude and forgiveness,

asking for light to enter my heart and forgive me.

Wanting to forgive myself and accept myself and love myself,

and have no fear of all these thoughts, emotions, shadows and

illusions that appear to be so real––but, I hear, are not real––

powerful but unreal––even a memory is an illusion

because it is filtered through thoughtand emotion. . .

and the images of the memories are seemingly random,

like a slide show, and who knows when

or why they appear, or why they appear when they do, or

what they mean. . . or if it is just natual processing. . .

like leaves blowing in spirals in an autumn wind remembering

the past spring when they were budding and growing so green

and with such eagerness and urgent joy and force and now

have let got of the branch     and turned gold or red or brown

and are swirling in the chilly storm wind of fall,

dancing in the air one last time on their way to the ground,

maybe to dream again of spring and summer and all the life ahead.

I just want to be harmless and live my life

with love and compassion and joy in my work

and learn to love others in a generous harmless way.


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Sizable hippopotamus lights a cigar and prepares to ease himself into the muddy River– it’s moments like these, he thought, that hold eternity together and keep it from flying apart at the seams.




December 2019
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