Posts Tagged ‘The Process

05
Feb
17

I *am* alive

But

The thing is-

I’m not

Dead,

Yet.

I’m still

Here,

For now.

Due,

In no small part

To sheer stubbornness

And fear

Of the other

Options.

I’m not

A survivor

Of strength,

Or determination,

As much as

I am a survivor

Of paralysis-

Too scared

To move,

Too afraid

To do anything,

Too committed to the starry-eyed Piscean ideals of love and desire and wanting to have things be the way they ought to be because it is the right way.

I don’t

Keep breathing

Because

I am

Conquering fear,

But because

I am

Unwilling

To be

More bold.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

February 5, 2017

28
Oct
14

Balancing the tastes

I’ll have

Your coffee

Waiting

For you,

When you wake-

As you slowly stir

From the dreams

We’ve made

Together.

It’s a process

To get it right,

Finding the balance

Of grind,

Level scoop or rounded scoop,

Proper amount

Of water,

Brew time,

Cream or no cream,

Sugar or no sugar,

Balancing the tastes

Of bitter

And sweet.

Each cup

An exercise

In intimacy

That moves past

The bedroom,

Yet compliments the passion

Nicely.

It won’t happen

With the first

Cup,

But I’m patient

And I want

To make love to you

With each

Fresh brewed cup

Of aromatic romance.

I want to see

Your eyes slowly

Open,

As the smell

Enters your nose,

And the hair

In your face

Gets brushed away

From your lips

For the first sip,

While I wait

To see

The look

On your face-

Your upper lip inching past the edge of the rim of the cup to taste what I have crafted just for you.

I’ll take notes

And learn

What makes you happy,

What pleases you,

How strong

You want it.

And once

I’ve gotten it right,

I’ll create variations

On the theme

To try new things,

And keep the excitement

Of discovery

Alive.

Maybe this time

Something from Ethiopia,

Or possibly Central America,

Or just a darker roast

From a similar region?

I will never tire

Of wanting

To make you happy

With each sip

And warm embrace,

Touching your perfect lips.

 

I will have your coffee

Waiting

For you

Each morning,

To gently bring you

To proper momentum

For each day,

Because

I love you

And take pride in my work-

Satisfying you

And your needs.

 

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

October 28, 2014

28
Jul
14

Erosion

I’m going

To bury

Them

In a field

In my mind-

Some fertile

Corner

With plenty

Of light,

Good drainage,

And nutrient-rich soil.

Let the ideas

And feelings,

Memories,

Grow

And take

Root,

Holding the soil

Of my mind

In place,

Secure

From erosion.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

July 28, 2014

20
Jan
14

Fountain pen

There is a poetry

In the sound

Of the nib

Scratching

Across the page,

Bleeding

Its life

Onto the paper,

Leaving

A much more

Permanent

Record

Of its existence.

The stains

On my fingertips

Will wash away,

Eventually,

But

The words scribbled

In hurried urgency

Will remain,

Having soaked into

The fibers

Of the paper,

Remaining long after

The moment

Has faded

Away.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 20, 2014

18
May
13

Curtain

Pay no attention

To the man

Behind the curtain,

Appearing to be

Ok in his life,

Quiet

In his mind,

Sleeping at night-

Because the curtain

Isn’t real,

Neither

Is his peace.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

May 18, 2013

05
Mar
13

It’s all over but the crying

As her skin

Vanishes

From my fingertips,

And the memories

Become

The past

In the moment

Of their creation,

The tears

Flow

Down cheeks

And onto sheets

That were wrinkled

By so much more

Than what the moment

Contained.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

March 5, 2013

 

16
Feb
13

Java

There are times

When I miss

A past

That I can not have

Ever

Again.

Memories,

Like smoke rings,

Evaporate,

Yet linger-

Hanging slightly

In the air,

Faintly.

I don’t

Want

Them

Again,

But the time

And the ink stains

On my fingers,

And the words

Pouring out

Without

A wall

Or a filter.

Sitting

For days,

In smoked filled cafes,

With a fervent

Need

To scratch out

Words

To poorly capture

The moment

And the emotions

Of ideas

So much

Bigger

Than me

Or the moment-

Equally

As much

Fiction

As reality.

They

Can stay

In the past,

Them,

But give me

Those words

And smudged pages

Filled with words

And red wine

Or coffee stains.

Let them

Walk back

To their boyfriends

And husbands,

But give me back

Those pages

And passion,

Filled with the sounds

Of rushed

Scratches

Of a nib across a page,

And the clattering

Of coffee cups

In the background.

They can stay in the shadows,

Mocking me

And my desires,

I don’t want

Them

Anymore,

All I want

Is the moment

When they

Inspired me,

Gave me passion,

Made me feel

Alive

In my insecurities,

As I hunted

Endlessly

For the meaning

Of questions

I hadn’t thought

To ask.

Their shapes

And forms,

Even their names,

Barely linger anymore,

But the memory and feeling

Of that time

Is still so clear,

And hurts much more

Than anything

They

Ever said

On their way out

Of my life.

I can clearly remember the hiss and scream of the espresso machine in the background, Miles Davis playing in the cafe, the cigarette in my left hand, and the pen in my right hand- rushing hurriedly across the page, trying so hard to keep up with my mind.

They’re gone,

But the memories of the words

Remain and haunt me

Much more.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

February 16, 2013




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