Poems by jmm
Reflected echoes, in the mirror of water.
Memories move in slow-motion.
Motorless craft, crossing a timeless ocean.
Places/Races, vivid and bold.
Faces/Traces, livid and cold.
Mental collectibles, seizing, teasing the now.
Promisers and pleasers, taking a bow.
Repression, expressed in sound, scent, or feel.
Truth and lie exposed, brutal and real.
A ripple in time,one second of life's crooked smile.
Tears break in waves, for lost years on file.
Sailing by the stars. No map, plan, or guide.
Straddling no fence, always choosing a side.
Once, knew it all. Now know, there's always more to learn.
Gave it all back. Asked for nothing in return.
I stand alone, more than half my time gone.
I've carried it all, been carried away, now I just carry on.
Secrecy breeds speculation.
Conclusions reached, without the facts.
Children born, live in blind adoration.
Ideas and opinions, shaped by parent's acts.
Truth and candor, where nobody judges,
hope to leave them with an open mind.
Forgiveness and faith, taught to hold no grudges,
hope they'll give back this treatment in kind.
Weigh all thoughts and deeds with 1 eye in the mirror.
Do unto others, and so on, and on.
Babies of ours, we should hold no-one dearer.
They'll take with them the pieces of us we pass on.
" Lost Dream Ship "
Sensations in magnification
Hairs standing on ends
A void of signification
Refracted sunlight bends
Vacation in hallucination
Two nights and one day
Hair that's turning gray
An hourly tour of innerspace
Guided by imagination
Meet yourself face to face
Express trains never leave the station
Vistas through backwards binoculars
Doorless hotel rooms
A rub of elbows with the populars
A jet-set jetstream zooms
Reflections of a sleeping pose
The off switch is turned on
Some muted background music flows
Recollection lost of where you've gone
Periodic installments flash you back
Brain waves electric static
Reality again repels the attack
The ship's pilot is on automatic
"One Eye Opened"
The air hangs over a dead calm sea.
All sound exists in a vacuum.
Visibility in degrees, through shades of blackness.
Unconditionally, undeniably, this is my night.
Peaceful rest of the innocent has, long since, abandoned my sleep.
A guard-duty like, constant state of semi-conciousness, has been
left in it's place.
By the time the pre-dawn, blue grey sky emerges, I will have been
battered in the mind's eye of several raging storms. Surreal
images come and go.
Inexplicable, abstract situations emerge. DREAMS...coexisting
with, and confusing what was formerly reality.
Impressions, at times, remain. Some are vivid. Some are blurred.
Some subliminal, some absurd.
On occasion, there is a mood left that lingers throughout the day.
Most often though, content is lost to the act of awakening. Like
having a fully reclined, front row seat, at an every-night,
At the end of these jump-cutting, plotless, pointless series of
illusions, the frames of celluloid smolder, then burn. They
crumble, contort, and melt, finally evaporating into wisps of
Micro-moments of clarity and revelation retreat quickly, and
deeply to some repressed, hidden cavity of the memory.
The daylight has stolen the ability of voluntary recollection. But
they are not lost.
They may lie dormant, or appear visually or as split-second bursts
of sensation. Triggered by unknown, random stimuli. This
provides neither resolution, nor consolation.
I now lie in wait for my involuntary guard-duty assignment each
evening. I keep one eye unwillingly opened, I'll drift off,
Maybe tonight I'll learn the answers, or see the light that leads
the way back to the quiet peace of a good nights sleep.
Sitting, shimmering in the corner. Throwing shadows through the
Telling all we need to know, from the cradle to the tomb.
Forming our opinions, top 10 lists of who's hot, what's cold.
Speaking in volumes, knowing how badly we need to be told.
They'll spin to our pleasures. No matter which way, this or
Pause it at our leisure, to walk the dog, or feed the cat.
Quick cuts and sound bites, we're cut and bitten every day.
Using polls and demographics, to know just what we like, or so
Stories told, with immodest intimacy, by "reporters" on the
War and peace, life and death, just watch the little screen.
Weather for the next 5 days, in case you need to know.
Will you need the umbrella, sun block, or a shovel for the snow?
The home town teams are losing, and catching lots of heat.
Their sports guy gets a million to ask the man on the street.
Stock prices are quoted over breakfast, taken with your morning
A crash may come tomorrow, but for now, the Dow's way up.
Transgressions are reported, using headline graphics so bold.
All the confirmation needed is an unnamed source. Pure gold.
Who's sleeping with whom? Who's been bad? Who cares who's not?
Shocking rumors swept out for "sweeps" week, if they're hot.
Cathode ray mediums sit waiting to tell us of the death,
of some shooting star, in and out of re-hab, or one gone nova on
Or caught in the bushes, pulpit in pocket,Bible in hand.
Or turned into lushes, stuck on the bottle.4-3-2... cue the
They'll learn a lesson for being human. How could they ever
A chance to reply, if it'san exclusive. In the guise being fair.
A short break they'll return. Get your hands off that remote.
If you switch you'll miss the dirt on another famous person of
They'll deliver the world, right there to your home.
You're in Moscow, right now, next segment it's Rome.
They'll walk you through space, you'll orbit the Moon.
They'll take you light years from here, and bring you back just
You'll be whisked, via sattelite, straight to the front,
of some 3rd world country at war, or some serial killer, still
on the hunt.
All that's important to know, on every issue, it should be
you'll get from their resident expert, who's career's just been
If you question his credentials, they can dig up 5 more.
Each shouting over the other. Each one sure, only HE knows for
If they should sound self-serving, with an agenda, or political
You're right! They're right or they're left, just like
wrestling, it's pretend.
By this time, you should be throughly versed,
believe it or not, some stuff's actually unrehearsed.
It's sign-off time, cue the Anthem to play.
Need more? Their cable outlet's on, ad nauseum, 24 hours a day.
Biographical sketch: 49 yr. old ex NYer now residing in the
southwest, one daughter, and a 3yr. old grandson.
ee cummings by ee cummings
Reason: The uniqueness of his visual use of stanza form, or
non-form, and the abstract images
inspired by his simple and odd descriptions.
Recommendations for writers:
Only write when genuinely inspired, or it will show.