Boys Are Not Stones
a poem about girls always holds red roses
floating on rivers
& boys never get to float on water.
give us a shovel,
we will dig graves and seal ourselves in the dirt.
across the street
a boy kept his palm under his cheek,
he lost his mother to the war,
his father left under the burning rain that night,
& since, he has never turned back.
stir fried offerings for vegetarians pure friday the day of congregation oh ye adherents shine after the flood sunflowers washed away in tumultuous current roofless belonging a room to each blue bird of paradise water and seeds at the bird feeder contaminated dark fumes up above a scarcity of breath the sirens and speakers signal evacuation families trapped on the rooftop others run to higher grounds the heavy flood of strangled waterways naked sky sprinkles stardusts a body of beauty to lust after their love private practice the tell tale wild daisies in her hair graveyard shift approaching me the cemetery digger with the victim's eyes the village boy: learning to talk grandma bites her tongue when he mimics her tone on his name slow world under its weight a tortoise tumbles and flips back in the pond
A Flickering Flame
Blazing
Daffodils, daisies,
and dandelions, the
colours, yellow, and
white. Blazing against
the green background,
even when wet, and
rained upon is a sight
that gladdens my heart.
After the months of
skeletal, naked trees,
and muddy, churned up
grass, to see colours
other than grey, and green.
The beautiful pink, and
white of the cherry blossoms,
as well as the blaze of yellow,
gold,white, and orange that make
up the flowers of the daffodils,
dandelions, and daisies uplifts
my spirit.
It confirms in me the belief in
something, even if I haven’t a
clue of what it could possibly
be.
Consciousness is both
Heaven, and Hell. We’re
going through both of them
right now.
Of that I feel quite sure.
I don’t know which religion,
if any, suits my needs, but it
doesn’t really matter.
As long as I am happy with
myself, and the world.
I can work these things out
later.
in that little notebook
i love when people start
staring at the weird fucker
in the corner
scribbling down something
in that little notebook
i’ll look up and then they
see this long ass goatee
and suddenly remember
it’s best to not poke at
something that might
just bring
some hell along with him
————————————————————-
the extra minutes needed
one thing
about these
cold weather
months
the beautiful
women with
a couple layers
on excite my
imagination
even more
i would enjoy
the extra minutes
needed to peel
back the layers
if ever given
the chance
—————————————————————–
ending a cycle of madness
i remember when i was a child
i always thought i would marry
the most beautiful woman in
the world
but sometime around the time
my father told me he married
my mother because he needed
someone to knock the shit out
of his underwear
i realized children wouldn’t be
the most responsible thing to
bring into this world
it never dawned on me that
thought would become a deal
breaker with so many women
it’s hard to justify ending a cycle
of madness while arguing with
a thundering ball of hormones
good thing i learned how to
drink as a child and in the
process got over any fear
of loneliness
thankfully, my imagination
hasn’t become old demons
seeking revenge
————————————————————————-
passed on down the generations
there’s a long line
of hate that runs
through my blood
it’s a cancer passed
on down the generations
and as much as i want
to be better, to rise
above and all that
bullshit
it’s useless at best
i simply temper
expectations
understand that failure
does not equal death
and eventually, the
stupid do fucking die
————————————————————————–
the endless parade
the endless parade
of what could have
been
this town is full
of regret
that happens when
nostalgia is replaced
with a hardened heart
that is confused with
religion
and of course
these are the fucks
that breed children
like cats have kittens
and i always laugh
when i think about
the first time that
mother finds her
daughter kissing
a black boy
or listening to
something she finds
too sexy for her age
of course, religion
means there is no
room for evolution
yet alone humanity
or any willingness
to learn
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Yellow Mama, Terror House Magazine and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
bonfire that day i torched all the poetry i was a sick but determined man i was looking for liberation like the great bra burners of the 60s in pajama bottoms at high noon i dragged out the olive trash can gathered up 29 years of poems every one i could lay hands on doused them with liquid starter struck a match and tossed it in con-trary having known desire having drank of pleasure and purple pain i stand in front of the mirror a ghost stirring inside me inside my musty mind a hand and suddenly a razor rushing through me one day someday one never knows yaka mountain lets bury our dirty little secrets in gods backyard under yaka mountain in the heat of the desert lets challenge the devil lets dig a hole sylvias mother listens outside sylvias door what is that girl doing why wont she come out for dinner why wont she talk to anyone she doesnt understand ripvan winkle white hair down to his knees white whiskers of time asleep in her arms -- Jeffrey Spahr-Summers Poet, Writer, Photographer, Publisher. spahrsummers@gmail.com www.jeffreyspahrsummers.com www.jaspersfollypoetryjournal.com
Bio: Jeffrey Spahr-Summers is a poet, writer, photographer, editor, and publisher. Jeff is the editor and publisher of Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal.
Bio: Jeffrey Spahr-Summers is a poet, writer, photographer, editor, and publisher. Jeff is the editor and publisher of Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal. His photos and poems have been published in numerous print and online magazines.