March 2017
Jed Myers
medjyers@hotmail.com
medjyers@hotmail.com
I’ve been enthralled with verse since I was a kid, but it’s only since 9/11/01 that I’ve been committed to participating through poetry. I live in the Pacific Northwest and practice psychotherapy as a livelihood. Recent work is appearing in The Greensboro Review, The Briar Cliff Review, and DIAGRAM. Please visit at http://www.jedmyers.com .
Was
Her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers,
time after time in that timeless trance—
now it’s like two luminous blurs,
a cloud of the past. It still occurs
as reruns projected upon the expanse
before me, her flesh, and mine on hers,
times on the porch, the couch, the stairs
to our bed, house that was our chance,
where now it’s two luminous blurs,
two breath-rivers’ confluence. It stirs
fresh wonder, time-water’s happenstance,
her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers.
It was, is no more, but reappears—
a spirited blunder now without substance.
That’s how I see us, two luminous blurs
like galaxies passing through one another,
just the light left crossing the distance—
her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers,
a oneness of two luminous blurs.
That Long Moment
Those days, our history. It’s got me
onto the old business, in battle,
of reloading. It took time.
On one knee, fumbling with powder and
shot, a ramrod, hands full with whatnot,
half-hidden in ferns or bramble….
While some other fool, across the dirt,
might well be taking aim. I thought,
that’s you and me. One reloading,
while the other, across the couch
in the living room, half-listening,
levels the barrel of blame.
And I thought of the one time I came
out in the open, on both knees,
both hands up where you could see them
empty, under what would have been
the trees. You stood and ventured out
from your muddy blind, to see
if I really wasn’t still hiding a knife
in some sheath of bitterness, and I wasn’t,
so for once, you knelt with me,
and for that long moment we kissed.
Because you did desire me.
Which was what the war was about.
And we went back to it, reloading.
One Moon’s Absence
Let the night be the metaphor
for the night. Let these houses stand
for themselves. We’re hungry
and our real stomachs are spiritual
stomachs. Our eyes are empty
enough to see. Give me your hand
for the softness and fierceness it offers
without a word. I tell you
I paddled under the swoops of swallows
this morning, through expanses of white
water lilies, and found a lagoon
where a kingfisher stalked the quiet. What
can I tell you but this? I’m thirsty
and wish I could find the moon in the clouds
tonight. Let its absence be
what it is, not a silent bell
or a closed eye, but the fullness
of this one night’s one moon’s absence.
Let the sky be all the sky.
Her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers,
time after time in that timeless trance—
now it’s like two luminous blurs,
a cloud of the past. It still occurs
as reruns projected upon the expanse
before me, her flesh, and mine on hers,
times on the porch, the couch, the stairs
to our bed, house that was our chance,
where now it’s two luminous blurs,
two breath-rivers’ confluence. It stirs
fresh wonder, time-water’s happenstance,
her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers.
It was, is no more, but reappears—
a spirited blunder now without substance.
That’s how I see us, two luminous blurs
like galaxies passing through one another,
just the light left crossing the distance—
her flesh to my flesh, mine to hers,
a oneness of two luminous blurs.
That Long Moment
Those days, our history. It’s got me
onto the old business, in battle,
of reloading. It took time.
On one knee, fumbling with powder and
shot, a ramrod, hands full with whatnot,
half-hidden in ferns or bramble….
While some other fool, across the dirt,
might well be taking aim. I thought,
that’s you and me. One reloading,
while the other, across the couch
in the living room, half-listening,
levels the barrel of blame.
And I thought of the one time I came
out in the open, on both knees,
both hands up where you could see them
empty, under what would have been
the trees. You stood and ventured out
from your muddy blind, to see
if I really wasn’t still hiding a knife
in some sheath of bitterness, and I wasn’t,
so for once, you knelt with me,
and for that long moment we kissed.
Because you did desire me.
Which was what the war was about.
And we went back to it, reloading.
One Moon’s Absence
Let the night be the metaphor
for the night. Let these houses stand
for themselves. We’re hungry
and our real stomachs are spiritual
stomachs. Our eyes are empty
enough to see. Give me your hand
for the softness and fierceness it offers
without a word. I tell you
I paddled under the swoops of swallows
this morning, through expanses of white
water lilies, and found a lagoon
where a kingfisher stalked the quiet. What
can I tell you but this? I’m thirsty
and wish I could find the moon in the clouds
tonight. Let its absence be
what it is, not a silent bell
or a closed eye, but the fullness
of this one night’s one moon’s absence.
Let the sky be all the sky.
“Was” was first published in The Three Quarter Review.
“That Long Moment” was first published in The Ilanot Review.
“One Moon’s Absence” was first published in Seven Hills Review
© 2017 Jed Myers
“That Long Moment” was first published in The Ilanot Review.
“One Moon’s Absence” was first published in Seven Hills Review
© 2017 Jed Myers
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