Summer Spirit

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The sun hoists on thread line

Suspended above the city skyline.

Goodbye winter

Hello Sunshine.

The change in atmosphere

Brings change in costume.

Roaring down the concrete plume

Wearing lots of skin.

The urban nature is bleary

Yawning in collective awakening.

Directly correlated to the temperature

Come on summer.

Like a marathon runner

Rubber-kneeing through a cumulus line.

Unsteady in the vast blue.



Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Where it comes from, I’ll never know.

I know I don’t ever want to lose it.

She smiles into my eyes-

Although the fall is steady and uncertain

We have each other to hold onto.

Our fingertips touch, fingerprints stick in swirling rivets.

The pull through time

Tumbles me effortlessly

In some guided direction,

Easily misconstrued.

These paths meet up later or they don’t.

I’m sure the end is the same

I’m glad to have you the whole way.

Are you glad to have me?

It’s hard to justify myself sometimes

Living in the irises of others,

Sleepwalking in fabrication.

I’ll keep my feet in my own shoes,

Point my toes forward,

And feel the pull of your hand.

Know we could both Tango away if so inclined.


Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

October woods harbor trees.

Dead, dry, free standing trees.

Their roots reach deep, through a blanket

Of curling rustling leaves.

Oranges, yellows, reds,

They ridicule the embers

That will engulf their confused apparitions.

I drag them from the Earth.

Root and all, axe in hand,

The head of which I sharpened

With a piece of granite;

New England is made of it.

With each dead tree fallen

A rush of brush scrambles

For a piece of blue canopy.

Burn the forest floor

Without abandon.

Tired, desiccated wood releases energy.

Sticky blood like napalm

Keeps the flames licking high

Into midnight sky.

I have a bed of coals but

I can never abate my thirst for flame;

Keeps me surrounded with

Light in order to write.

From Time to Time it Crosses my Mind

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Nine months

Not ingesting

Still regarding

The burning

As perfume.

I leave sick-hungry.

The addict gives

In to their regrets

We fight with fervor

To repress ours.

It doesn’t make you high

It makes you sick

Then you just get used to it.

Winking in the huddled

Social circle outside the bar

The only common ground:

A five minute fuse every other hour

Killing quicker

Than the sand of time.

Age brings lessons.

Age brings accomplishments.

The riotous days

Awake to the same hurdles

That little crutch between your lips

Nothing more than

Psychological accumulation

Of pattern and reward.

Those Coincidences

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Pack a bowl

Toss two green tea bags

Into my Lee Est. 1763 mug

Set the scorching kettle

Onto the rug

Iron out the wrinkles.


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?


At the gym

Watching the built-in elliptical television

Chicago vs. Nets live feed

Garnett slaps his head

The teleprompter reads:

Look at all that sweat!

Half a second after

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

sing about sweat into my ear

It takes my conscious reflections

To bring them together

It’s brazen to overlook dimensions.


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?


I think about you

The next day

Someone’s lips drop

Your name, so my question:

Are we engines of thought

Or driven to cast into a vast ocean?


Am I

A permanent refuge?

Are you

A permanent refugee?