I Have a Few Questions

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

They say orientation is in your genes
Predisposed to procreate.
The human brain trying to make sense
Is what got us into this mess.
Fueled by stress
And the desire to flex.
I work to afford relaxation.
I work to afford the cost of living.
Feed the afflictions I was born with:
Warmth, hunger, and thirst.
Feed the cravings I have learned:
Caffeine, dopamine, and tetrahydrocannabinol.

The question is: Are you moving forward?
The question is: Are we moving sideways?

They say orientation is in your genes
Predisposed to procreate.
The individual trying to influence the mass
Avoid becoming another ring on the saucer.
We deconstruct and sell the hours in our lifetime
We equate a cash value to a construction like time.
Pay off the past,
Work for the present,
Save for the future.
The past is decided,
The present is tangible,
The future is ethereal.

The question is: Has the sequence of events been planned?
The question is: Has one event pushed me to the next?

They say orientation is in your genes
Predisposed to procreate.
The numbers in my head
The sweeping of my eyelids.
Collecting precious memories without being aware
Building important acquaintances one day at a time.
Brushing through imposed path
Crossing the bushes and desire lines.
You can follow me for as long as it works,
But I warn you- I have no idea where I’m going.
You wake up at the same time of day
On a day that will never be the same.

The question is: Does today contain 24 hours or does my life contain 744,600?
The question is: Does today contain a series of molecules, atoms, and waves of light permeating in a unique pattern?

It’s Life

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

It’s a thought
I cannot bury,
So I keep it simmering,
Let it linger out of body,
Up near the ceiling
To spy on me like a ghost.

My fear has not been realized
If I’m still taking the time
To sit here and spill ink.
Now, if only I could unwind.

Slow the torrent of thoughts,
Write neater
So I can read it later,
Smoke to expand my mind.

I can breath deeply,
And think clearly,
Building a home within this
Brick and timber landscape,
Let my thoughts trace the skyline,
Let the music fill my ears.

Measure another ounce of aquavit,
Pull crumpled bar bills
Into straight numerical order,
Fold them neatly into my back pocket.

Life unfolding before my eyes,
Dreamed subconsciously,
Imprinted into my memory to register,
Falling with confidence off the ledge.

Climate Change

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

Let it permeate the brain.
Work through your thoughts to explain
Where emotions have wandered.
We were born into this mess.

I remember when humans were plugged into physical reality.
I remember when we thought space was a dusty cupboard.
I remember when I wanted to explore the jungles and meet the animals.

If the World turns on a dime
The Universe turns on a atom.
Gravity keeps us connected.
The moon and planets grind and polish us.
All they need is time.

Experts report our game will end
Once every thirty years.
We’re drowning in plastic.
We’re polluting our orbit.

If corporations can have the rights of individuals
Let’s hold them with the moral scrutiny we would a poacher.
Justice’s sword cuts both ways.

Everything living creates waste.
Why is ours so sinister?
Why is ours so damaging?

Embrace decay.
Recycle our goods,
Recycle our consumers,
Recycle these pages.

Let words live in your memory.
Make way for new
On the whisper of spoken verse.

We were born into this mess.
Clean the monsters from beneath the bed,
Cough the tar from our lungs.

Who Am I?

Benjamin Jenkins, life, Maine, New England, poem, poems, poetry, Portland, Portsmouth, writing

I’m a walking storm cloud with
Respect for the relationships I nurture.
Reeling my loved ones with
Torque fueled by their support.
Nature and nurture a blur of colours.
A clear picture approaching alarmingly fast
Emerging into existence from both sides.
I’m a novel missing its final pages
Swimming the murky waters of vocabulary.
Little time to edit, riding that wave, unable
To plunge beneath the surface.
Unable to pull those moments back to safety.
I’m a child scribbling outside the lines;
Colouring the sky green,
And warping perspective.
Search for a new money pit
Before
Pulling myself from the swamp.

Who knows who I am
My cells can’t stay complacent.
They decay , regenerate, and replicate.
I’m a new person every half decade.
Who knows why I write
Maybe I just like to feel the pen move-
Think in spilled ink,
Take no notice
Of
Grammar constraints

The Great Barrier Reef was pronounced dead today,
Facebook told me but
Didn’t offer any reprieve.
I hear that individuals have the power to make an impact
Band together to reverse the human impact.
As an individual, I pledge to make any type of pact.
We’re the nuclease of our own universe.
Connecting, rejecting, believing
Our conscious thought generates the world.
All those eyes looking back feel the same.
They associate value to images with no merit of opinion.
If I keep rambling, some piece of
Polished ore is bound to make an appearance.

The Fool

Benjamin Jenkins, life, Maine, New England, poem, poems, poetry, Portland, writing

Herb and music
Seems to get it flowing.
Perhaps it’s a formula?
Perhaps it’s a routine?
Maybe it’s this ice cold aquifer
Beneath a patchwork of permeable rock.
Maybe it’s sharp graphite
Smearing smooth and flat as we slip through time.

Connect the dots…
Slide a rhyme, unlock
Tethered thought.
Stabbing underbrush and tripping root; unblock
Obscured shoreline.
Unable to slow down, let alone stop it.

The wind blows,
We dance around the Sun.
Light reveals friendly details,
Unmasking those strange shadows.
I’m pulled, my feet falling
Stumbling to catch some sort of footing.

My head wondering
The River’s direction,
Simultaneously
Calculating the velocity
Of the current-
Situation.

My words filtered through your eyes
Spoken in your voice
My words and your interpretation.
Have we ever captured anything?
I’m ready for a change
It’s something of an exchange.
Let’s take the first delicate step,
Evaluate the degree of gravity’s grip.