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.

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.

Sub: Poem#1987(Poetry)

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

All engines burning on Fiction

Lately, I have not written poetry.

It is hard to believe, surrounded

By humans and animals.


It is barely spring.

It is barely five.

The smoker outside

Is barely alive.

Children push siblings in carriages

Shaking powdered cinnamon

On tall, light, mocha frappuccinos.

Only differences between daughter and mother

Are stature and amateur body language.

Travel through this painted life

Absorb it into my irises;

Spill it out in ink symbols.


Magazines do not accept poems

About writing.

What do you want from us?

My poems reflect my life.

Who am I writing for?

Is it you?

Is it me?

Egotistical Payday

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

You’re a writer

If you can put down the pen

Then pick it back up.


Is this art?

Or self-mutilation?

More like endless process.


You need experience for work.

You need work for experience.

It makes my spine hurt.


They told me to go to university

Or I will end up flipping burgers.

Now, burger flipping requires:


Five years working experience,

Bilingual skills,

The completion of an unpaid internship.


We treat money like a human right,

Priced by hours in your life.

I’m a professional fine-dining measure for poison.


If sipping coffee, staining ink into bleached page was a paid gig.

I could don a powdered wig

And light cigarettes with burning Benjamin Franklins.


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.