Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The autumn leaves fall

Tracing the breeze

In colors rustic and whole hearted

The New England air

Is crisp and fair

A memoir of two worlds

Juxtaposed as one.

The night is black

The moon is full

The state cop sleeps

While the barn burns

With the trees

Hickory, Maple, and Birch

Roots keep the East Coast

From eroding into the Atlantic.


The breeze smells

Fresh and clean

The way ocean air should

We hike with haunted eyes

Gazing at the stars

We have never seen

The hanging heavens so clearly

You take my hand

And I point out Orion’s belt.

The Old Man of the Mountain

The face on the license plate

A symbol representing the whole state

Bore a granite nose

That finally tumbled

Unable to bear

The Granite State’s tempests.


New world tales

Whispered across the

Stormy Atlantic

Through shanghai tunnels

Eager sailors brave midnight tide

On silent oar

Racing toward Port City brothels.

Here you drink to

Keep up with the Jones’s.

Here you drink to

Forget the night before

An old man

His city and his whore

No helmet

No seatbelt

No sales tax

Live Free or Die.


Three-dollar PBR fuels

Late night line dancing fools

Spinning smiles brings spinning heads

Do-se doing while lying in bed

My head finds that place

Where neck meets shoulder

While we warm ourselves

By the crackling fire.

Dead leaves burn

Creates dancing ember

There is no sound

There is no sound

There is no sound

Besides the cracking of leaves and

The curling bark on chopped trees.


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