The Fear

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

Heavy influence of substances

Stops the thought process.

Heavy influence of caffeine

Keeps me keen.

Write a horrid mass of

Marble-bag words and splatter plots.

Zoned for Conservation

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

They say only the strong survive!

Looking around this room,

I can tell that is certainly the case.

A mighty tree has come crashing down

The whole forest heard it fall.

Tongue Rust

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

 

My dreams were absurd, scrambled last night, I know.

Can’t seem to recall any coherent flow-

Or any type of image worth review.

When I awoke, so vivid I could taste it.

Sober reality focused and it was gone.

A flicker across the retina of my mind’s eye.

Try to fire neurons in other hemispheres,

Try to recall that little detail-

A detail you might be creating

Or mixing from other flickers.

Like this poem, excavated from my skull.

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.

Let’s Keep Pushing

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poetry, writing

It’s late,

The streets patrolled by

The homeless and the sleepless.

The moon is giving it her all,

Obscured by an inch of fog

And cityscape glow.

I feel like an anchorless shadow.

One more cigarette,

One more shot of espresso,

Will make me feel whole.

I know when it’s time to roam,

Whether to weather the storm.

It’s time to blow back home.

Our love keeps us connected,

Kneeling at the starting line,

The beginning starts at the end.

I’m listening to the soft glow of jazz,

With a green bottle in my hand,

With nervous ambition in my skull.

Hours after noon are when I’ll stand.

Pull myself from the security of my bed,

Dressed for yesterday with empty hands

And blood pressure in my veins.

One of us may have made a grave mistake

But I have never been so sure

Of anything in all my ambitions.

Certain Decisions

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

As all things, it must grow naturally.

Why get mixed up in it?

For the love of the game.

It’s on the wind.

It’s in their mannerisms.

It’s from their actions.

It’s about that time.

It’s read in shadow.

It’s guided by light.

It’s the barriers of time.

It’s the creation of memory in those confines.

As all things, it must grow naturally.

Why get mixed up in it?

For the love of the game.