Spare Change

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I want words to live

Not splashed with formaldehyde-

Dried, ink stained into the page.

For me, this shit’s therapy,

Leaking memory

Through metaphors and simile.

Life changes on a dime.

My mind’s sick

A disease makes me write anything upon it.

I open my mouth

Never know what it’s going to be.

Attack the industry

With life blood pen trickles;

Ordered, symbolic ventricles.

It floods my brain.

Let’s maintain this relationship

Of reader and writer.

Watch yourself in these lines like a mirror,

I’ll record my environment.

Together we’ll make it

Through the world

Dime by dime.


The Garden of Living Flowers: Pg.5

Benjamin Jenkins, Screenplay, Script, Short Stories, The Garden of Living Flowers, writing



Zach walks up the stairs and is greeted by a long hallway of doors. He walks to the first door, fluttering his hand along, fascinated by it’s movement. The sound of the music’s bass booms, muffled, from somewhere in the house. He opens the first door.

The door opens to a room with three people wearing flowers and masks. They sit around a table under a pale light. They are in various levels of dress, playing a card game. Smoke hangs heavy in the light. There are empty bottles all around them in a ring as well as their discarded clothes. One of the girls notices him. She jumps up, wearing yoga pants and a bra. She still has her socks on and the mask. Pinned to her bra is a purple iris. Her nametag on the other cup reads: Shawna Iris.





Zach slams the door. He moves quickly to the next door. Opens it and jumps inside.




The room is dark with moving shadows. Flashing colored lights from party machines, a large burning fire in the fireplace, and candles are the only light source. The music is heavy with bass. A full band is playing in the corner of the room, illuminated by a cluster of candles burning at different levels.

Everyone in the dark of the room wears a mask. There are people dancing, and people on the couch intermingled. Zach notices that two of these people are Tessa and Patrick. They are kissing, still wearing their masks.



Tessa! Is that you?



Zach! I tried to call you but your phone was off.



You’re sucking Pat’s face off! Patrick, man! What the hell?



I have been trying to tell you for a while now buddy, you just haven’t listened to me!



I have spent the whole night looking for you Tessa! I have journeyed all night to tell you goodbye! I am moving tomorrow.



I know Zach, Patrick told me. Don’t be mad at him! I’m sorry I should have waited.






Zach stands in the same position as when he discovered Patrick and Tessa. He has the handle of a rolling piece of luggage in his hand and a large hiking backpack on his back. There is a large window before him with planes taxiing. Flight announcements can be heard above his head.

To his right there is a table with a vase of flowers, knocked over and spilling water over the edge and onto the floor. The flowers from the vase are one of each: Rose, Lily, Carnation, White Daisy, Pink Daisy, Iris, Violet, and Aster.

Close up of Daffodil as the only flower still in the horizontal vase. The stem of the Daffodil is touching the remaining inch of water in the vase while it slowly drips empty.



We are all weeds, fighting for an inch of canopy. I leave the garden for pastures a plenty.


Fade out on Zach watching the last of the water drip from the vase.

Close up on his sneaker taking a step toward the gate. He steps on and crushes the Lily.


Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Number eleven is my favorite number.

The working order, lucrative to

Grilled salmon and summer sunshine.

Jack bathes in the sunrays.

Heavy humidity promises slower days.


With graphite on the rivets

Of our fingertips,

Keys slip into a fury.

Pattering finger patterns

Burn conscious thought.

These lazy days are soft.

These hard days well fought.


She writes like E.E. Cummings

Because she doesn’t know how to shift.

Like a saxophone player.

Gliding across the minor scale.

Oily geared and chunky-

This piece of history.

The keyboard is her instrument.

Close your eyes or let them go fuzzy

Clear your mind or write the first thing upon it:


He calls his cat Pigeon Pillow because they are both lifted and he makes a cooing sound when he lands from a leap. Our un-mastered identities run rampant.

Jack is-

We tumble toward night, burning words and shopping for Caesar ingredients. We dream of places we call “Home” and the prospect of building one.

Jack is-

We tumble toward the unknown with a laugh behind our lips. We carry each other and a few coloured plastic balls full of catnip.

And Jack is-

Christmas in Calgary

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Christmas Eve,

Calgary to Edmonton.

Absorb the frost heaved

Rolling Canadian prairies.

The Cannon shoots

Solid, high-res memories.

Like freezing an inhale.

So real, you’d never remember the detail-

My stocking is a ski boot.

The first time

My pupils absorb Winter West.

The first time

My lungs filter cold, dry

Stampede City breeze.

The expanse is so vast-

My eyes play tricks on me.

Feed me information that everything is tiny,

It’s all perspective.

It’s wonderful to fit into tradition

Like the jigsaw Rockies fit into the blue, flat horizon.

It’s good to see smiles and learn mannerisms,

To revel in each other’s art.

Worlds apart-

Screen vs page,

Sound vs thought.

I feel right at home;

A world away from home.

Lift Off

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

To alleviate anxiety

I flip through the

In-flight movie section

Television selections.

A little light always reminds you not to smoke

But you really have to dig for the memory of VHS

Be on time or plug in late.

None of this:


Fast forward,

Personal tailored enjoyment,

A real-time map, tracking

Flight and weather patterns.

Now, everything is digital.

I’m spoiled in frustration;

The NBA 2014 Holiday Special

Is the only good program.

I should marvel that anyone could take a shit

Flying 30,000 feet above the sparkling grid.

The parade trade of

Accordion restroom doors flicker

After the seat trays

And backs are equalized.

People tilt their heads

Away from iMacs, iPods, and iPhones

Glancing out bread oven windows.

I strain to glimpse

A sliver of takeoff,

Middle row vantage minimal.

My vision shutters.

The change in perspective

Attracts everyone’s irides to the horizon.

Everyone strains to see

The world become two-dimensional.