david jewell poet

I’m going down the highway, my tires are on fire.

The pavement is burning behind me.

I hold my thoughts real still,

I don’t blip the radar.

I slam through little towns like a crazy dust devil,

swirl into the Tiny Mart for food and drink.

White lines yellow lines white lines yellow lines.

Scenery goes upside down through my optic nerve,

is flipped by my brain, and then whispers

every thought I ever had, and then forgot, and then

had again, and then forgot again.

The bigger the map I have, the smaller the roads I take.

I drive through some towns because of their name.

It all flashes by and is gone.

Mirages of water stretch like fake lakes and oceans

ready to blaze at the kiss of a Zippo.

it is early in the morning

and I stare at my coffee

but I can’t see the future.

if I could, I’d want to change it,

but that’s not part of the bargain.

the past is either set in concrete,

or a mirror full of strobe lights–

the coffee won’t explain that either.

everything I do

sets something    in motion

I get dizzy.

Wish

We lay on the ground and stretch our arms wide

and pretend we are airplanes––

someday we’ll fly away

up up into the happiness clouds

up where it’s fluffy and funny and free

with lots of oxygen and plenty of room

and hapiness for miles

everywhere you look

we will barely remember where we came from

or remember as much as we want

but only with amusement and pleasure and

gratitude and it will look like

a landscape tapestry where every

piece  every thread  every dot  was

perfect and exactly where

it was meant to be

and we will fly to the stars

and swirl with the galaxies

and dance the cosmic dance

of love   only love

11-17-12

restless day break of tension memories.

what does it mean to know what to do?

what does it mean to want to be alive?

what does it mean to consent to being alive?

if only there could be true understanding.

then forgiveness and peace would be easy.

and harmony and co-operation would follow.

and that should be what we learn in school.

hippos shuffle their midnight bodies

through the stars of questions.

they are not in the past or future.

but it feels like past and future

is all there is.

—

many fires by the water lined along the shore

camping sounds and stories and songs

ancient rhythm of the waves––

when the tide rolls in the fires will wash away.

swans drifing on the pond

water so still like a mirror   every swan

looks like two swans   one right side up

and the other upside down    so many swans

falling to the ground now and then a meteor

or piece of space ice   caught by earth

bringing some small change to the planet––

space so large we can’t imagine our place.

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