david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category


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lookin’ for my soul, oh, vagabond-buddha /

oh, hiawatha, wanna be with-ya /

which way, sistah / just call me mistah

starshine-superfly / don’t know why I jive

just stayin’ alive another day / another way

another sylvester-saint in the daisy-chain-

gang / cool-hand-luke no cahoots “what

we have here is failure-to-communicate”

whack––with a cane––ouch––down the hill,

bake me a cake / and put in a pill don’t

leave it in the rain don’t talk me out of

my imaginary pain / my imaginary pleasure

lookin’ for a leisure-suit at goodwill to

freak out my grrlfrien’ then-go-to-the-mall & buy some

bling-bling / wanna make her sing / so many

things get lost in the shuffle.

where and else

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Else loved Where, and they ran away and got married.

They began a kingdom, called Elsewhere, and it was a place where

very many people, in all parts of the world,

wanted to be.  It got pretty crowded.

And then No showed up.

No was shadowy, but handsome, and, well,

he had a certain magnetism. Where became mesmerized.

Poor Else, he suddenly lost Where, when she ran off

with No. Then Elsewhere wasn’t anywhere anymore.

And No and Where went to Nowhere land,

which is just 100 miles south of Neverland,

and they could not be found again.

jrnl photo 1

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jrnl photo 1


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life is fire

whether i am sound asleep

or totally wired

life feels more like going down a river

than driving down a road

with a map.


one way or another the river will take me


completely unaware of what is between now

& then.

The main thing about being alive

is,  no one knows.


                           alligators lick the shore

                  near the lawn of the outdoor party

         lightning bugs & cicadas & lanterns

  of all colors other small lights

  scattered magical all around

inhibitions drop like clothes

                         in a dressing room

        & have one last look in the mirror––




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I know nothing––

I have lived in its house for many years.

I have floated in its starless infinite liquid black ink with no compass and

no clue where I might be drifting, or if I am in motion at all.

I know nothing––

its sense of humor at unlikely times,

it’s sudden bursts of brilliance and peace,

its terors and night-sweats and lack of light that is darker then space,

darkness-beyond-darkness that takes you to the highway in the rain,

makes you want to live again,

makes you want to roll the dice with your one last gasp,

your last arbitrary wish, your last lucky penny,

roll the dice as you are falling

even if you may never see them land,

or know if they’ll come up lucky 7, or snake-eyes, or craps,

even if you know you may never know




mr. shadow

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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.


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rain erase me and clean my face as i stare into the sky as you fall.

rain come find me and bring your clouds the sun is burning into my skull.

rain let me taste you let me drink you and become you carry me with you to the sea.

rain help me call you help me see you and dance with you , your tiny drops all over me.

rain my sweet sister , my brother , my mister , my mama , my saviour , my disaster.

rain. yes. welcome. welcome sweet rain. it has been so long. my skin needs you.

rain come again and stay a little longer and wash me away and bring me back in

from the rain.

nada dada improv

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now inside the thunder whispers of another room.

disjointed arabesque of mountainous fortitudes.

wallover sychophants like Houdini penumbra.

whichever way upside-down space is everywhere.

fire burns always since time began counting.

everyone loves a disguise when running from the law but

no one can run from the silver lined epiphany of our deliverance.



(senseless maybe? i had to look up

half the words after I’d written them to

see what they meant, or fit, or get a clue

to what I was talking about, but, I’m not

sure I did… but I’m not sure I didn’t either).

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outside in the dark

morning is blooming again.

my sleep is fitful

and strange.

why isn’t it friendlier––

it is so restless . . .

where does it want to be?


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