Windows Open Season. Waking Up To Birdsong Season. Smelling The Dewy Grass Season. Twirling In A Long

My futile attempt to find nature

I start with parks,

Unassuming grassy expanses

Rimmed with palms, perhaps

With a pond or playground

I graduate to preserves

Larger ponds, sometimes with

Geese, always with ducks

I walk along its paved paths

Or rocky byways, but I

Run into the road

The sounds of cars inescapable

Beyond the quacks and honks

And rustling of untrimmed mesquites

I try a "hike", more of a

Stroll through the stones of a

Great, holey hill

I lose track of my impromptu

Guides, so I take the easy route

It leads to he canal, another

Reminder of man's hubris in the

Desert biome I now call home

I was born to a land of true wilds,

Of old growth forests protected by

Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut

I was born to hills, and creeks, and

Bushes bursting with black berries,

Counting the stars on a clear night,

Camping in the back yard,

Craning our necks to watch deer

And woodpeckers working

To hear bats screech under the new moon

I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood

I watch men fish at stocked ponds,

I hope the sounds of motorcycles

Doesn't scare their catch,

But these creatures are likely as

Trained to the sounds as the grackles

Are to rooting through trash

I pray that the little natures around me

Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped

That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,

That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,

That what little respect my new home has

For its many gifts can yet be preserved,

For the sake of the hikers, the birds,

The saguaros, even the God-given rocks

I pray for all of these things with my one

Little soul, with all the nature within,

Though futile my tiny words may be

To the unrelenting force of mankind's

Unending greed and craving for more,

More, more

We're neither of us angels

I

The crowd of lesser demons gnawing at my thoughts doesn’t come from us –

my mind circles because our moments won’t stand still to be captured.

I only haunt myself when you’re not in reach to remind me I haven’t died.

II

I weave secrets, around you, over you, yet in your presence nothing is hidden,

not even the carelessness of my wishing. You are the pennies winking low in the well,

taunting me. Every past moment of wistfulness for someone I hadn’t met yet arriving

with the grace and fluidity of rain now distils fears to the nightmare of losing this.

III

No angels will save us – still a barter better than any

offered at the crossroads. I’ll love the demons to death.

🌺Jason Isaac Jordan, 28 (12/11/1996)

🌺Arizona, USA (Born Ohio, USA)

🌺Transmasculine, Bisexual, in a 9 year relationship.

🌺 Amateur poet and cat parent.

🌺BS in Botany.

🌺Currently working as a custodian.

🌺ADHD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar I, Fibromyalgia.

🌺Loves birds, coffee, cats, writing, board games, video games, and cooking.

🌺Collects: Teapots, mortars and pestles, marbles, and books of poetry.

🌺Using this account to post poetry I write and that I enjoy.

Spotify Insta

Between 183 and Liberty Church

The spot near the plastics plant,

Bare earth scooped neatly into mounds,

Preparations for a new recycling plant.

Skittering along the debris of a

Previously undisturbed wild,

Before my memories formed.

Eating hot pink clovers that tasted like

Sweet carrots, as mama said they would,

My little brother hopping in the lazy puddles.

This disturbed earth not a quarter mile

From my new home on the outskirts of town,

Our lot barely having grown it's beard of grass.

The newest children in my small neighborhood

(if there are any) Will never know this place

Apart from where their fathers might work

The spot between the 183 and Liberty Church

Where once was trees and clovers

Where once kids scrambled over piles of dirt

Where once all seemed well in the world

Where earliest memories were made

I write poetry on the bus because it's my only free time

Sleeping in and breakfast

Shower and coffee

Not necessarily in that order

Walking to the bus

Walking from the bus

Working

Working

Working

Sometimes sitting down,

Sometimes working

Walking to the bus

Walking from the bus

*

Cooking

Gazing into the abyss

Screaming into the void

YouTube

Sleeping

*Optional (but not so):

Migraine, Joint pain, Irritability, Talking

Inauguration

A List of "Beautiful" Words: Gray

for your next poem/story

Ashiness - a whitish or grayish appearance that resembles ashes

Cinereous - gray tinged with black; archaic: cineritious

Evenglow - a reddish gray that is yellower and deeper than mist and lighter, stronger, and slightly bluer than opal gray

Fuscous - of any of several colors averaging a brownish gray

Greige - a variable color that blends gray and beige

Grisaille - decoration in tones of a single color and especially gray designed to produce a three-dimensional effect

Gunmetal - a bluish-gray color

Pewter - a bluish gray

Slate - a dark purplish gray

Taupe - a brownish gray

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists

There's no shame in collecting

Pretty things in an ugly world

Prisoners are allowed their pictures

Hoard your joy there, tooth to cheek

Your smiles are stolen secrets

This land does not deserve

Music of the Planet

Prayer

I wish I could pray every day,

Over dinner or at bedtime

Or anytime during the day perhaps.

I would say I have nothing to

Pray about, but that would be a lie.

I have plenty to pray for, both for

Myself and for others.

All I would need to do is

Clasp my hands, bow my head,

Talk to God.

Then my hands become repelling

Magnets, my head, full of helium.

My prayers stay stuck in my throat,

Choking my soul.

On occasion, I vomit up these

Words caught up inside,

Spewing out of my eyes and mouth,

Screaming a silent scream as

The rain streams down my face.

It's either this, or the prayers

Frozen in place would chill my heart,

Turn me to stone, kill my spirit.