Saturday, March 30, 2019

Three Poems

I am trying to improve my poetry skills. If you take time to read these, please please please comment with feedback. Which of the three speaks to you most? Which least? Are they any good, really? Let me know...

Transition JD Stillwater, 2019 

Our fathers’ science 
reduces my selfhood to widgets
a model, a machine, 
idly ticking clockwork,
pointless.

Our fathers’ religion
renders my body a shadow
a slut-shamed sleaze
a clay model, a precursor,
discounted. 

Our daughters’ science 
consecrates wholeness
First Light made mortal meat,
cosmic wind incarnate, 
alive. 

Our daughters’ religion
marries meat and mind,
a sweaty pungent monument
a galaxy, a destination, 

a symphony. 





Cloudy With a Chance of Hell JD Stillwater, 2019

I just want to watch movies. 
Or browse YouTube. 

Something wrong with that?

I don’t want to walk to work, 
or ride my bike with a daypack. 

Gas is cheap now!

I want to lie on the floor, and relax
with a cuddly friend, maybe. 

I want a handbag with sequins that flip.

I want to be safe. 

I could use a new phone, one with 
a bigger screen and more colors.

Plan ahead? Why?
fares are cheap now  

Did you see that new thing? I
ordered one; it’ll be here tomorrow. 

I just want to be warm.

Why bother hanging them?
this new dryer is high-efficiency.

I don’t want to be good; I need
to de-stress and be fully present. 

I tried to be good once, to recycle, to 
do my part, to “save the world.”

Besides, nothing I do will make
any difference whatsoever. 

I want to fiddle while Rome burns, 

and picnic on the railroad tracks. 


This Body JD Stillwater, 2019

This body–
sweaty, stinky, earthy
bones, blood, breath
flabby, wrinkled, furtive
–is no mere shadow.

This body–
that shits and sings and
breathes and heaves and
mumbles and fumbles and
obsesses and professes and
over-eats and over-thinks and
flares and cares and shares and fails
–is no glove for a ghost. 

This body–
of clay and water
smoke and sunlight
salt and germs and meat
–is no fine-tuned apparatus. 

This body–
of sticky hairy 
smells-like-fishy
lusty rusty bloody
slimy grimy snotty
oozing squirting farting
fecund fungus jungle 
pond scum arising to carnal flesh
–is no fallen depravity.

This body–
racing full-tilt after the 
flying football the 
almighty dollar the
gorgeous glamorous girl the
chance at glory or 
at least notoriety or
some whispered remembrance 
–is no clicking whirring clockwork. 

This body–
fertile no longer
but once, wonderfully
(cosmically, even)
still so vibrantly alive 
even as I walk
through the valley of the shadow of 
despair 
–is all I truly know. 

This body–
its own magic recipe
blueprint for itself
 like a seed
 like a spore
gathered ingredients
constructed from 
scrapings, pilferings
e unum pluribus
e pluribus unum
–is magic

This body–
the one you pronounce
so confidently 
to be mere
shadow on a cave wall, mere
predictable machine, mere
clothing for a ghost, mere
precursor to heavenly bliss
or eternal torment below,
–this body is real.

This body is mine. 


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