david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category


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in the time of apples
in a town by the lake
I took a walk in the woods
and never came back.
there were statues . . .
and maybe I turned
to stone out of boredom,
clueless about how
to get home.


shadow man

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.(rough draft).


let your shadow do the walking

little horse race


let your shadow do the talking

mr. not-much-to-say


let your shadow take the hit

everything goes right through him

he don’t care

he so very flexible

on rocks, on water

stretched out at sunset

and sunrise,

he always changing every which way

depending where the light is coming from…

or how many lights are on…

or, like a flash.


and when you play with him

and dance with him

and pose for pictures with him,

he don’t mind all that.


he is changeable.


he don’t pretend he’s only one person.

he don’t pretend to have so much substance.

he knows he can’t hold onto anything.

he knows he’ll disappear when the lights go out.




Hardware Henry

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.(rough draft).


Hardware Henry wrenched his neck looking sideways at Sally at the Diner on his lunchbreak.

He was the strong, silent type, but his eyes were like guided missles.


Sally shook her head, “The big lunk,” she thought, “What did he think? What did he think he wanted?”


They were both dented and broken and damaged as two Trailways Buses that had crashed into an AmTrak Train going opposite directions across the railroad tracks, and they landed here in Palookaville with Doctor’s bills and Goblin-histories, and whatever else was following them around like dust bunnies under the dresser. And they were both staying at the rent-by-the-week Hotel/Motel on Grant Street where it dead ends at the City Park.


Henry was about 15 years older than Sally, but at some point who’s counting? The older he got the more he felt like it was every one’s souls that were different ages, or the same ages, and as far as their bodies went, it didn’t matter much….. unless you were into mountain climbing, or hang gliding, or whatever.


a bunch of short ones…

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escape the alabaster plaster

the alligator of despair

clock ticking, talking

rythmic cytoplasm

oh, where are we again .  again .  again .

always the same no different

you’d think it would get old

it never did

something new, unimaginable, like

another planet opposite ours also

called the earth.




all so



all so






what do I think has to be different or finished or accomplised or arrived at before I let myself relax

and enjoy my life and being alive and all its many blessings?



What a lovely view!

Did the beach come with the apartment or did you have it installed?


I was thinking about music the other day and whether or not the palm trees were singing to me… then,

I realized, or course not, they were just singing…. dropping coconuts on my noggin while I was joggin

on my tobaggan… oh mercy, stop me!   I was supposed to meet Clara around here somewhere and bum a cigarette.




singing red flower…      oh great


like the alligator ate it      so flexible in his luggage mentality

he takes it all with him (every thought)

everywhere he goes.


singing and smoking cigars.


That’s just his nature     nobody

really taught him anything


red as a flower     red as the blood flower glowing under the summer moon

it was another time

another place


we were calm

and there were waves.


we were fond of retiring for the evening under the listless palms and extreme hair-do’s

being distracted for a moment

by the wing-tip shoes hiding under the surreality of another fold-out couch.





Exercise: Poetry Walk:  Write something down at the end of every block, at every corner,

connected to something seen or sensed in the moment.


….  ….  ….


objects made of atoms

and then spirit and thought and emotion

somewhat facilitated by atoms

then transcending them

into the invisible.



i don’t go out looking.

you never know which insignificant event will change your life completely.

or which insignificant event would have changed your life completely if you hadn’t decided

to stay home instead.


….   ….   ….


emotions waking up    tumbling out of bed

playing listlessly    then rambunctously with all my reality paradigms.

turning dials

way past the proper settings

before long I may be in a fog.




Broke-down clown downtown lounge

cocktail bar of neon cigar whiskey girls

like the old days, but not quite, just a little––

or if you knocked all the tvs off the wall

then maybe.




Where is the tongue-fit nomenclature rewind

of fanatic personal hygene and physical

maintainence among the loose leaf

librarians stumbling down the stairways

or arithmatic and architecture into the

spring air full of song birds and

flower pollen making them sneeze

their glasses off and lose their hats they

can’t even remember where.


. . . .


I’m a walrus in the sunrise

floundering by the sea

fish flop up on the rocks

and taunt me.

I suppose they are playing

but they are slippery,

not really so easy to catch,

not at all.




waves are so delicate and frantic

so whispy and whispery and

just out there––fully revealed,

moody as they want to be,

or as the weather allows.




Crow sat in the tree pondering the




that seemed so ubiquitous but in truth

was very rare.




Road Hawk was waiting

waiting to wheel out

on another adventure





FrankenWhale RobotWhale CyberWhale

cyber clown   surfing   fell  under the waves    the whale and cyber clown

recorded then cloned

and added wings for whale to fly or swim

and increased size in geometric progression until whale became as big as

the planet Jupiter

causing gravitational disturbances   and swallowing    the whole earth.



a whale made of independently

robotic water molecules.





Superflous Man

scoffs at buildings with a single thought.

has great disdain for speeding bullets.

has imaginary x-ray vision that sees into other people’s thoughts

in highly distorted and completely inaccurate ways.





song of thorns   throaty songs

release form the feet to the street    the downbeat    the clownseat

I’m mr. wordy on re-wind

ran out of language. . .   gonna try a new line

maybe I won’t ever shine     just keep rolling    keep rolling all the time.




dreaming    dreaming    dreaming

little things come and go.

people come and go.

where is the place of recent discovery.

sleepy      sleepy      sleepy.

what is there to say anymore.




growing up– life just never seemed to be about me.  so I thought I could drift on the couch in front of the tv

unnoticed, and un-noticing — the bargain I made for not knowing how to get attention or connect.




==fountain of tooth

++more nonsense. wait a minute

––are you saying anything?

==again with the questions? why all the questions?

++are there certain answers you are hoping for?

––yes. maybe.

==I want the answer that says

it’s o.k.  Just the way it is.




Panthers again.

Deep dark panthers.

Shocking panthers.

Sleek graceful panthers.

Panthers of longing for tenderness

and affection.




Sugar in the blood, a celebration.

Fire in the brain, a complication.

Afternoon so sleepy, and maybe a nap.

Who is running the world

in my absence?




Swirling blurprint of destitution.

Somnambulism among the clerics and hospitals.

Excuses in bulk and random quantities.

Gone fishing, for instance––or––

I didn’t know.








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Rain, they say.

I’m planning my fedora.

I’m making an appointment

with my trench coat.

And I’ll wear my grubby boots.


Rain, so rare

in the Texas state.

Like a gift of tears,

like a breath of oxygen.

I’ll count the raindrops

as they hit the roof

and name them

one by one,,,

say hello and good-bye.

I’ll give each one an message

to give to the ocean,

if they make it that far. . .

it will keep me quite busy,

thousands of raindrops

each with their mouth open

laughing as they fall.


The birds will drink

some of them, and the gutters

will drink some,,,

but the lucky ones

will go into the trees,

far from the roads.

Or, right into the river,

right into the river

when they fall.



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drifting sideways

like a butterfly in the wind

like a sailboat in a hurricane

I want to begin.


I look for a compass

and imagine a map.


And wonder if it matters

because I could sure use a nap.


diari unui mgeni.

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entry 1.


I see other hoodwinks.

I hear other distances.

palm open wide. . .

martian landscape above.


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No matter how long I watch her, or hear her smoky voice,

or listen to her hot words, while her lips caress the language,

or how closely I watch her dance, and swing her hair around––

she is like a beautiful mystery, forever unfolding,

like watching the ocean~~wave after wave, from infinity to

infinity, luscious, dripping, ripe like swollen fruit.



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upside down in reality’s playpen.
swinging on the monkey bars of everyday dreams.
flowing with the notion of the motion of the ocean––
rocking steady and sweet in the heartbeat
of cosmic love.



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time with fuzzy edges.
time leaking linearity.

sitting on an airplane one afternoon.
on my way home from visiting my father,
who was finishing his life, and would be gone
in a few months.

I’d been looking through photos of my father
when he was a child.
I could see him as a child, and I could see him
as the man who was my father when I was a child,
and I could see him as he was then, a man
preparing to say good-bye.

I was sitting on the plane looking at all the other
passengers. We all woke up somewhere that morning.
Groggily. Knowing we would travel. And we would all
fall asleep somewhere that evening. Cozy. Having arrived.
Now we were in the air.

I could see them all as they were when they were babies,
and I could see them all as the people they were right then,
and I cold see them all in the future somewhere,
leaving their bodies behind.

And time.
What is time but a practical and ridiculous way of slicing
tiny slices from a lovely round cake that we could enjoy
just as well, if not better, by keeping it whole, and sharing
all the moments, each and every, now and always, as one.




March 2015
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