Humid Port City

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

The female figure

Toes like candy

Creased arches

Architecture, Imposed over

Intersections of blue veins

Legs crossed

Pale thighs culminate at

Impenetrable shadow.


The Collective

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

Slowly slipping away

Measured by day

It’s my conscious thought

Or the ability to collect it.

Caffeine Engine

Benjamin Jenkins, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, Throwback Thursday, writing

Smoke pours from my crown in the form of conscious thought.

Smoke pours from my lips in the form of a lit cigarette.

Bend in thin alleys and alcoves.

Closed storefronts and bright sparkling coffee shops.

Open the notebook and fall from the world into oblivion.


My mind becomes looped in interest,

In the way graphite melds with the white pulp of paper.

In the forming of the letter O

Clockwise vs. counter.

“Operator- can you help me?”

The Grateful Dead in my ears.

The caffeine in my bloodstream:

Oily and clear as Micah enforced by a blue riverbed.

Hot and black as coal endorsed by a green mermaid.

A vowel is a skeleton key.


There’s a distracting mechanism on the apple wood table.

Named after a fruit.

Named after temptation.

Show me an array of

Faces and undocumented news.

An endless dictionary, thesaurus, and encyclopedia within my pocket.

Keep the Grateful Dead singing American Beauty.

Connect me with voices wherever we stand if I happen across your thoughts.

I feed its electricity

That glow won’t fade away.


The snow begins to swirl brick streets.

The people seek shelter.

Warmth from radiator or alcohol.

Close the notebook, stop drawing letters.

Cap that billowing smoke stack with a black Red Sox hat.

I take advantage of the weather

Move toward work.

The Daisy Field (III/III)

Benjamin Jenkins, life, New England, poem, poems, poetry, Throwback Thursday, writing

We fell from Heaven

And struck every branch

On the way down.

The impact left a crater,

Half the diameter of a New England town.

With no direction I dream

Of rambling on.

Lucidly waking, scrambling for

Planes, trains, or bus.

Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.

The Rhetorical Question

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

It’s ill education

It’s the pursuit of satisfaction

Comparing cash value

To the subjective flow of time.

The Rolling Bones

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

Take a chance and

Roll the bones.

Don’t let it build

Until it bursts.

Mow the lawn,

Water the garden,

Get your hair cut,

Sip Lillet Blanc from a chilled cup.

Allow alcohol to touch your lips,

Don’t let it be the reason they move.

The Sands of Mine

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Old Orchard Beach

Is closed for the season

The Arcade, The Fryers, and

The Booze Monsoons hang in there

Digging up that last buried dollar

Printing that last redeemable prize ticket

Stay off the boardwalk

Stay in for dinner

We are long passed the crowds

Craving summer carnival narcotics

We walk the beach

Watching the tide

Juxtaposing our memories

Passed, piled into grains of sand

There’s no shortage of sand

My Brothers are scattered

Through age and Beach Pea

Throwing a football, spinning fire poi

Red Sox Jacket flapping in the rippling wind

The wind burn feels like a subtle sun burn

The cold sea air like a cool beverage

The salt in my cells

Osmose into a different thirst

Family and ocean scenery