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.


Stepping Stone Moon

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

I walk a landscape

Of glass, concrete, grass, and

Raspberries by the carton.


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.

Christmas in Calgary

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Christmas Eve,

Calgary to Edmonton.

Absorb the frost heaved

Rolling Canadian prairies.

The Cannon shoots

Solid, high-res memories.

Like freezing an inhale.

So real, you’d never remember the detail-

My stocking is a ski boot.

The first time

My pupils absorb Winter West.

The first time

My lungs filter cold, dry

Stampede City breeze.

The expanse is so vast-

My eyes play tricks on me.

Feed me information that everything is tiny,

It’s all perspective.

It’s wonderful to fit into tradition

Like the jigsaw Rockies fit into the blue, flat horizon.

It’s good to see smiles and learn mannerisms,

To revel in each other’s art.

Worlds apart-

Screen vs page,

Sound vs thought.

I feel right at home;

A world away from home.

Brought from Thought

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Like kaleidoscope irises;

A line of Dexter washers

Spin on the wall.

Washing over my thoughts

Tumbling there along with my socks

My mind is a blank.

Sometimes that tickles the write side of my brain

Sometimes it pricks it.

She tumbles through my head

Two weeks seems like a century.

Family tumbles through my head

An excursion feels like a pilgrimage.

I need to work less for monetary coin

And write more poetic rhyme.

I dream of writing everyday

But I already do.

Someone with an arm-bundle

Asks me to grab the door.

I hear them through my headphones.

“S’okay” I say.

Placing down my pen,

Grabbing for the latch.

The Checklist

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Things that happen before writing:


Go through my notebook.

Go to the gym.

Go for a walk.

Go on IMGUR.

Go on Facebook.

Go on a date.

Go on my iPhone.

Do laundry.


Think about writing.

Think about women.

Think about my Father.

Think about life.

Don’t call.

Mop the floor.

Drive a car.

Eat a banana.

Smoke a joint.

Smoke a cigarette.






Try to find a star in the City sky.


Hope that writing comes.

Have a breakup.


Have a relationship.


Have a pint.

Watch the squirrels run around the rafters.

Watch the dawn.

Watch the haze.

Watch a show.

Watch a videogame.

Plant some seeds.

Wait for spring.

Watch them grow.

Watch the hour slide on.

Watch it snow.


See a friend.

See a foe.

Drink scotch.

Adjust my sight.

Drink a glass of water.

Drink coffee.

Move here.

Move there.

Fall in love again and again and again.

Shed some skin.

Shed some light.

Shop for groceries.

Change my ink.

Touch paper to pen.

Pet Jack.

Let Tony distract.

Me with his violin.

Type a written poem.

Use the bathroom.

Bring in the afternoon.

Listen to music.

Get a tattoo.

Serve tables.

Fall asleep.

Count some sheep.

Count my change jar.

Count some days.

Play pool.

Take a shower.

Bob in the traffic typhoon.

Tell myself I am a writer.

List off my credentials.


Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Electricity sprays through my veins

I maintain this same ink stain-

A mundane selfless act

Of writing my thoughts.

I light another cigarette-

Watch the embers flick

Flash turns into ash

Smoke turns to my breath.


The Walrus said:

The time has come-

You fell from grace and

I just wanted a small taste.

As we skip along this

Redbrick Road-

Viewed by topographical vantage points

Step on a crack

Shatter your Mother’s facts.

Like the sidewalk’s weeds-

Peeking for the slightest hint

Of Vitamin D

Crevices spell the initials

Of love-sick Scarecrows.

Abstract ink bleeds

Like mascara streaks-

Only the cowardice in the Lion knows

This ink is the doubt that grows.

Condensation of lust soaked skin

A sticky situation when

There’s no lubrication for the Tin Man.


In the pulmonary arteries

Of the Hemingway Reincarnates

Rhythmic typewriters click-

Splashing ink into nonsense.

Summerhyme in humid air

Bleeds the present into past tense

And while we all wait-

The tides will undertow us

Away with the wake.


Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Born with the drive to strive.

Heaven and Hell

Play horsehair violin strings.

Harmony becomes symphony.

Live your dreams

Or fall

Through Alice’s looking glass.

Brought to our knees by

A self-aware synaptic miss-fire.

My life is measured in passed kisses

Beneath burnt charcoal skies

I smoke signal my wishes.

Memories pierce my veins

Backwashing a crimson decision.

My High

Plunges me into a rush of divinity.

Dropping from a boundless height

Burning with an evanescent light.

I become a color

On the spectrum.