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.

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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 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.

Electric Ivy

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

“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”

“You mean right this minute, or in general?”

I have never been asked this question

With such earnest,

From a sane, pragmatic individual.

Sane, in the sense he has made money.

Sane, in the sense he has children.

Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.

Is this pragmatic thinking?

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.