face

Posted on June 16, 2014 by jswaingrass78

described in a mirror, begging for crown
torn like a sheet when crying, eyes present
longed for in script, distraught in sweat
rushed in crowd, expecting
wanted in posters, angled by logic
birthmarked in blue, oxygen redding at the crease
loathed by none, asking for all
present the same, wrapped in quadrants
waning and waxing, omnipresent
poroused alive, every morning arisen.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

when the falls come

Posted on June 15, 2014 by jswaingrass78

you face it splintered eyes with vows hatching

silver thatched chicks.  weep

for the down, accept the triangled patterns

of your pores.  stores are open, yaws jesting

for advice.  give it to them but 

don’t wince upon the catch, when

the falls come, accept the bail.

keys coined to gesticulate

in bows remained sowed in linen.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

travel me down

Posted on June 15, 2014 by jswaingrass78

travel me down then miles or eyelashes
the quicker the better because
history has a way of tricks played
against our better wishes
and risk is the same; risk is your lips the play
of sand against our hands in caution
yellow tinged astray yet compassed, swelling
of tongues mistaken in talk yet forever
searching.

travel me down then take
this instance of arteries burst, failures given
or received yet miles none mistaken;
did you see it, the last instance
your heart mapped mine it was
cracked but whole like mine the sound of raindrops
searching metal
roofed in the veil of our silence
forgiven as the broken foam of a wave
falling back into our sea.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

confederate widow

Posted on July 2, 2013 by jswaingrass78

–Author’s Note: This one needs more work but it’s off to an interesting start.

confederate widow

she reminded him of a confederate widow,
dressed in grief and valor
shaded by southern points demarcated
by spanish moss and inherited lightning.  the heat
was too much for him
so he presumed the thought
of museums and dressed himself
in the coattails of curation.
when he bowed in front of her,
threads from his evening jacket split into shards.
 “you deserve to be preserved,”
he said and swallowed the syllables whole.
what does it mean to mean every word?
she drafted a response and rebelled
against the union proposed.  civility
reigned; he held out his eyes on his fingertips.
she understood this
to be a third act.
the revisions were upheld by genteel direction
but his eyes were on his fingers.
it was difficult to get past the notions of
new starts, carriaged doubt, railways into the leaded past.
she reminded him of a confederate widow.
he countered his own insurgency.
Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

on rain

Posted on July 2, 2013 by jswaingrass78

on rain

the rain has broken.  the interrogation
was indeterminate, an unfixed
missile with split contrails
guided only by his shakedown of
the clouds. his intent was
to identify facsimiles and
starve out imposters
laying claim to melancholy. this
is the problem with rain: every
drop is intentional, invulnerable
to breath; it follows
hurricanes dancing in his heart,
striking at the vestigial tail
of certainty.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

actuality

Posted on July 2, 2013 by jswaingrass78

actuality

was his heart discovered,
(at last)
or was it left in its destroyed womb,
a capillary burst waging
iron against equations?

perhaps it was born too late,
this heart, forever jousting
against some wooly beast
gnawing at arteries.

or maybe it should have been
left upon a green-hilled
fortune, awed
at the screaming innocents
below.  they are unaware
of the explosions
in their chests.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

pattern

Posted on July 2, 2013 by jswaingrass78

pattern

where or what and you began.
or was it begot or begat?
all the same, i walked
the circuits of your toes,
their digits talking
of flotsam or jetstreams
that same greenish hue
of cornstalks waddling
in air you haven’t birthed but
the same permanence of ink
listing on your mother’s skin.

there is something here:
it’s not like the other and
it’s found in the radius of
your small arms
against the ribbon of
my vertebrae.

you’re unfurled now, my
little flag, bucking against
the battle of the pattern
of your breath.  your cheeks
the same moonscape as before,
the last whisper of
an explorer sighing, hands
dripped in gold.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | 1 Comment

Breaking Hiatus

Posted on December 26, 2012 by jswaingrass78

Hi out there,

I’ve taken a small hiatus from blogging for the last couple of months.  Will be back with some fresh stuff here shortly.

Right now, I’m watching my three year old dance a mad dance as she chases her dog around the house.  I’m reading Richard Ford (“A Piece of My Heart”, what an amazing, visceral book that evokes place in ways that I’ve seldom read before) and listening to the Pearl Jam b-sides album “Lost Dogs”.

“Hard To Imagine” is one of my favorite cuts from that album.  Great line to start that song:  “paint a picture/using only grey/light your pillow/watch the flame”.

There are only six days left in this year, and if you listen too closely, you can get swallowed by the seconds drifting by.

Me, I’m holding tight to the flotsam.  The rain has broken here, finally, out at the Western end of the world a few blocks from Ocean Beach.

Looking forward to pen touching paper.

–JSwaingrass.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Pond Song

Posted on October 3, 2012 by jswaingrass78

Pond Song

A necklace of evening smoke
plys its trade on her collarbones,
mudhens swirl in the ebb jaws

of pond water. “i thought they were
coots,” she says, lolling her hair
and a coyote brushes its thicket.

Cattails nod along to lullabies wondered
by septuagenarians asking her name–
days weeks months of

weeks and days dancing
in sparks between her brows. “Tell me
another story,” she says.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

since when

Posted on October 2, 2012 by jswaingrass78

since when

since when does lightning attempt to make a reservation online? that seems counter intuitive and likely to fry circuits and all other sorts of unpleasant things. are my fingers insulated with polyethylene or am i missing something here? the keyboards, tumid and looming are squawking for assistance, towering practically frantic for thunder to judge the distance of the next strike. listen here, all you people waiting tulip-breathed with judgment: it’s true i am maundering in my own teeth and woolen with nostalgia but every
conflagration started with this lightning from somewhere else that won’t follow the natural order of things.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments