Achingly real

It stirs

Deep within,

Nearly like a rage-

But softly tempered

By desire

And a good glass of wine.

Below the surface,

Beneath the skin

And embedded in the muscles,

The hunger is there-

Less soft

Than raw,

Less hard

Than strong.

There

Deep inside

And simmering sweetly,

Achingly

Real.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 21, 2009

Still

I can still

Feel

The cool air

Against my cheeks,

As if

I was still sitting outside,

Still smoking

My last cigar,

Still drinking

My glass of wine,

Still

Breathing

In

And still dreaming

Of the words

To describe

All of the unsettled.

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 21, 2009

Smoke

It doesn’t stop

With the last

Draw in-

The lingering

Of the taste

Sticks

To the tongue

Long after

The smoke

Has cleared away

And the glowing

Embers

Have stopped.

That taste

Stays

As a reminder-

Delicately

Fading

Into a memory

That only slightly

Softens

With each sip

Of the red wine-

Trading one warmth

For another.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 21, 2009

Cigar

Sitting in the cold

Evening air

With a burning

Cigar

In one hand

And a glass of wine

In the other,

My thoughts

Turn

And race

From love

To lust

And passions-

Real-

And of dreams.

The burning

Red

Of the tip of the cigar

Glowing

With each draw,

Smoke swirling

Around my face

As if a screen

For my thoughts.

The cool air

Chilling the outside

As the wine and cigar

Stir warmth within.

My mind

Searches through the corners of thoughts and dreams and desires and hopes…

As the restlessness grows

And the hunger swells

For all those

Thoughts

To be found

And nailed down

Long enough

To be real.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 21, 2009