Vacationland

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

I drink Moxy while I do my laundry.

My family, my friends, Jack,

And sixty minutes of time from my day

Keep me sane and breathing.

Life in Vacationland is sweet

And full of Eastern White Pine.

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The Axis Turns

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

Bustling, brimming to boil over

Vigorous vibrations

Shock me, I’m reluctant

To open my eyes in the morning.

Humid Port City

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

The female figure

Toes like candy

Creased arches

Architecture, Imposed over

Intersections of blue veins

Legs crossed

Pale thighs culminate at

Impenetrable shadow.

Caffeine Engine

Benjamin Jenkins, New England, New Hampshire, poem, poems, poetry, Portsmouth, Throwback Thursday, writing

Smoke pours from my crown in the form of conscious thought.

Smoke pours from my lips in the form of a lit cigarette.

Bend in thin alleys and alcoves.

Closed storefronts and bright sparkling coffee shops.

Open the notebook and fall from the world into oblivion.

 

My mind becomes looped in interest,

In the way graphite melds with the white pulp of paper.

In the forming of the letter O

Clockwise vs. counter.

“Operator- can you help me?”

The Grateful Dead in my ears.

The caffeine in my bloodstream:

Oily and clear as Micah enforced by a blue riverbed.

Hot and black as coal endorsed by a green mermaid.

A vowel is a skeleton key.

 

There’s a distracting mechanism on the apple wood table.

Named after a fruit.

Named after temptation.

Show me an array of

Faces and undocumented news.

An endless dictionary, thesaurus, and encyclopedia within my pocket.

Keep the Grateful Dead singing American Beauty.

Connect me with voices wherever we stand if I happen across your thoughts.

I feed its electricity

That glow won’t fade away.

 

The snow begins to swirl brick streets.

The people seek shelter.

Warmth from radiator or alcohol.

Close the notebook, stop drawing letters.

Cap that billowing smoke stack with a black Red Sox hat.

I take advantage of the weather

Move toward work.

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.