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J effrey
Spahr-Summers started writing poetry over 30 years ago while
living in South Africa. He is a former Chicago stage poet,
founder of
The Chicago Poetry Agenda and a former active board member of
The Tulsa
Arts and Humanities Literary Arts Council. A former member of
The
Greater Dallas Community of Writers, Jeff has conducted and
participated in numerous poetry workshops and feature readings
in the
U.S.A.
His poetry and photographs have appeared in numerous print and
online magazines, most recently; Blinkzine Arts Magazine,
Interpoetry, Poets Against War, Juice, Downtown L.A. Life
Magazine, Sketchbook and Ygdrasil.Jeff is also the editor and
publisher of The Poetry Victims, americana photographic, Frank
Talk Blog and Liar Liar Pants on Fire.He lives in Colorado.
Patch
So I have this stop smoking aid it is
A little round patch 2 inches in diameter
A nicotine transdermal system it says
But really it is just a little round Bank-aid
Something to slap over my lifelong addiction
You see I have convinced myself I must do
Something constructive while you’re gone
Strumming Her
Like a virgin ukulele
One hand caressing
Petting her
Fretting over
Her smooth cool neck
The other hand
Stroking
Plucking her strings
My fingers searching
For the moment
She moans
And quivers
Cries out loud
Baritone bass
Her hollow heart
Pounding
In rhythm
Vibrating deep
Against my chest
Don’t interrupt
now...
We’re in the heartland
she’s riding a fresh horse
waving her sword about
riding up to his door...look...
she’s knocking...he is coy...
glory...glory...the
shoes fit
she sweeps him of his feet
The Book of Your Life
And so I gently close this book
The adventures of your life intact
Africa Europe Hong Kong Brazil
There and back again and again
Never quite willing to give it up
Breathing a crushing sigh of relief
As I feel for your pulse my eyes
Glued to your bare chest and
Blessing the lack of movement
Mother watching fearfully from
Down the hall her hands cover
Her mouth lamenting the need
For such pain and this moment
The wolf with a bag
on his back
(a Ute legend)
came up into the mountains
wondering
at the shadows of the sun
that clung to him
like skins hung out to dry.
It was a lonely climb
and the bag got
heavier and heavier
shadows came
and went
and came again.
He set the bag down
then people
speaking all languages
spilled from the mountain
and spread across the earth.
But we stayed here
near our mountains
near the heart
the source of life
this is our legend!
Time
Time simply keeps running along
So much the unpredictable son,
Here, there, everywhere for a moment
Shock full of mischief and wonder.
Yesterday I think it brushed my feet
As I stood bewildered in the garden.
Tomorrow it might slap me in the face
For all I know when it gets here.
My Mother
She sits alone waiting for me to come home
Her face speaks volumes her lost love eyes
Begging for release from the prison of grief
I think on how to convince her you are well
On your way the pain melted away she sits
Alone staring into vivid pleasures gone past
Every morning in you chair warily wishing
That none of this has ever been or could be
As Sure as Onions
The poetry will kill me.
I can see it already...
Locked in a room choked with books,
Up in the mountains, a cabin of pine
Parked on the lip of a lake
Painted with evergreen summers.
And me...
Eating nothing but opinions
And memories that smoke on paper
Like engines lacking oil.
Drinking nothing but vowels
As stale as year-old cola.
Breathing nothing so fine as rhythm,
Gasping for its velvet touch
As it brushes by as light as air.
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