Dunes at High Head

Benjamin Jenkins, Cape Cod, life, New England, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Unrelenting heat.

Sand burns the sole, toes

Dive like the seal on

The Atlantic porch,

Wrap High Head turrets.

Grass- sharp and sticky,

Threads of cool moisture

Hold the windswept sand

Of time together.

Alcoa Bakery

Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Tables with serviette stations stand

Spaced apart, like livestock grazing linoleum.

The atmosphere is Easter and will be for the next month.

No matter what’s ordered-

The price is around $5.85.

Moving on varicose veins,

Vision tipped with red billed visors,

Dusted in flour, selling Lotto tickets and cigarettes,

The women behind the counter

Could be any body’s grandmother.

Two televisions play soaps and soccer.

An elderly, male audience;

Scratching tickets, drinking Sumol,

Consuming caffeine of heated espresso bean.

I order a black drip and Pasteis de Nata to fit in,

Then reveal my Macbook Pro.

Peer into Davenport, through steel roller shutters

Plants that hardly need water obscure

A riotous display of motorcars and humans.


The ATM: The heart and soul.

Electrically alive;

The only polished gem.

Built from sole to brow

On egg, salt, sugar, and flour;

Portuguese pastry, deli meat, and cheese.

Duplicate chocolate cereal boxes

Live in spare real estate.

I see no harm in it.

A man who looks homeless begs cup of coffee from the barista.

She obliges without a word or coin exchanged.

The vice won’t turn him into an abomination,

Water costs nothing in the business.

It’s a gold mine disguised as a salt pile.

Don’t think fiction, just look up and type.

Amongst the 25 cent candy, tattoo, toy machines

Amongst age that lived everything I have learned.

They sit in their leather jackets and Scally caps.

Cigarettes in their front pockets,

Index finger in an espresso mug’s loop.

I sit with white iPod EarPods,

Soaking my perception in underground hip-hop.

iPhone on my hip,

Spliff folded in wallet, tucked in back pocket.

We stand up and depart,

Decades apart.

Surface Tension

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Lurking wind; Port-City brick sea

Polluted by the gull scream,

Sticky gelato melt,

Salty sting of deep fryer.

Foamy Hampton Beach brine

Soaks into pores,

Protects me from the sun.

A humid one.

Amongst a throng of wandering galaxies:

Painted toes like candy;

Thonged in Birkenstock.

Salt and sand powdered thighs

Gazing through the back of hands

At the Atlantic horizon.

Fish for a smile,

Feel chest crash

At cresting wave.

Against battened down ducks

A model of Beech wood

Fair less float.

Keeping Stationery

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Sit down to write poetry

Or edit a story.

Inhale breathe of hers

Absorb Ray Ban filtered sunray.

I’m worried this itchy anxiety will leave me,

As I leave the pen uncapped-

Floating upon paper’s surface tension.

Boil off thought.

Creating something bottomless

Within a two-dimensional, tree by-product;

Separates me from

Drowning in my B memories.


Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

In some circles

The number thirteen is cursed.

Words break that pendant.

Thirteen roses wither on twine

Hanging from the vanity, red and white.

They transcend their lustrous plush

Into an eternity of sentimental paper.

Tied with hemp and a prism of quartz

Thirteen dried roses, collect dust.

White light shattering into a spectrum of color

Always reminds me of morning.

On my fingertips rest her eyes in the state that owns autumn.

She dreams of a room:

Crystals hanging from the sky

Like stalactites of ice.

A willow weeping its dream catchers

Over blankets of woven wildflowers

And pillows of cumulus clouds.

The sea breeze crosses the distance

Over miles of Lake Ontario shoreline.

The bed is warm and comfortable

Listen to Jack’s snores.

On Saturdays during the harvest

Soil is rubbed from potatoes,




Concocted into something edible.

The Meat Man sells stock bi monthly

The line is slow but worth the wake

Summer is always worth the wait

Another winter on the downhill melt.

Green buds promise rebirth,

Some are not so lucky.

The crystal ball has you believe

The wheel is capable;

Equal parts misfortune; fervent desire.

You read my cards the last time I left;

Never have a string of words resonated so profoundly.

My departure points to wonder.

Would the moth blessed with hindsight

Review the flame or cocoon?