I use a Baoer fountain pen.
When I finish writing, my fingertip
Is stained with ink to the swirling rivet.
Zoned for Conservation
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writingThey say only the strong survive!
Looking around this room,
I can tell that is certainly the case.
A mighty tree has come crashing down
The whole forest heard it fall.
FUNds
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writingElectric Ivy
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writing“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”
“You mean right this minute, or in general?”
I have never been asked this question
With such earnest,
From a sane, pragmatic individual.
Sane, in the sense he has made money.
Sane, in the sense he has children.
Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.
Is this pragmatic thinking?
Sensual Decipher
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writingAs honest as possible
Writing, thinking, and ignoring
Proper grammar marks
Package the whole process
Within paper and metaphor.
Perforation
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writingThe only thing killing me is time,
It’s no longer a cigarette
Sitting amongst the pack
Within my breast pocket.
Craving immediate effect
Leads to side effects.
The Girl Scout Cookie
Benjamin Jenkins, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, writingPortsmouth was settled in 1630.
My first glimpse through universe-rimmed black holes was in 1987.
Smells of rain spattered cobblestone, dusk, and wet wooden framed brick structures
Churn with diesel fuel and brackish ocean.
I’m surrounded by the building of burned hours…
A Tuesday Night Shift Haul
Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, Throwback Thursday, writingWorking until 2 A.M.
Mopping a blood stained
Potato peeled floor.
To supplement my basement
Kitchen, I’m pinchin’:
3/8th’s of a plastic bear shaped bottle of honey.
I have the tea.
I have the coffee.
I have a tea bag that looks like metal tongs.
Made of bulbous, Iron-mesh bongs.
Tongue Rust
Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, writing
My dreams were absurd, scrambled last night, I know.
Can’t seem to recall any coherent flow-
Or any type of image worth review.
When I awoke, so vivid I could taste it.
Sober reality focused and it was gone.
A flicker across the retina of my mind’s eye.
Try to fire neurons in other hemispheres,
Try to recall that little detail-
A detail you might be creating
Or mixing from other flickers.
Like this poem, excavated from my skull.
North York Poetry
Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, Throwback Thursday, writingThe sun beats down
With bated baton
Upon a North York community.
Rattling the Black Walnut tree
Which peppers the back canopy
With meaty green seed.
The After Burn
Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, writingI awake;
Into the daze of reoccurring reality,
Into the marijuana haze,
Into heavy, hanging thoughts,
Into an empty, nicotine saturated tummy.
