he could see the line
it was there, always there
constantly daring him to cross

he even liked it
he flirted with the line
taunted it from a distance

but he had chosen a path
a comfortable, winding path
that would never force him to cross it

and then one day
suddenly and without warning
the path brought the line closer than it had ever been

the line sprang to life
startled, he stared at the line
and the line gazed back at him

with eyes and mouth
and body and spirit it spoke
and called his name and begged him

to leave the path

jwturner
8/7/08

It’s actually sad to look at the date on my last post. Can it really be that long since I’ve written any kind of poem? Not even a haiku?

Speaking for myself, since there is nobody else to speak for, I often wonder if I should keep it up or not. Perhaps I should just turn it into a personal writing site and forget about trying to force poetry to come. It’s either there or it’s not. As you can see, it’s not been there.

your face
on my screen is
gripping my brain
I know it’s a photo
but it drives me insane
it’s solely to blame
for the sleep
i’m delaying
for this moment’s
unfraying
for the demons
i’m slaying
for this game
that I’m playing
for this price
that I’m paying
for the urge
i’m obeying
for these words
I’m relaying
and the ones
I’m not saying

jwturner
8/28/09

they get
the top to do
the most of few
the first of you

they get
to be desired
to be inspired
the you not tired

they get
blessed by you
the zest in you
the best of you

I get
what’s left of you

jwturner
6/29/09

you fooled me once, shame on you
second time’s on me
number three? simply painful

jwturner
5.18.2009

i long for the new in you
the first touch of your skin
the surprise of your curves
the shock of your lips
i long for the unforeseen
an unexpected movement
an unpredictable moan
an unforgettable moment
i long for the new in you

jwturner
5/8/09

Walking out of Moscone Center in San Francisco, our group happened upon Zach Houston’s Poem Store.

Zach sits outside with an old typewriter and pumps out poems on ripped scraps of paper. He simply asks what you want your poem to be about and you pay him what you wish. I had no cash, so I borrowed three dollars, including a $2 bill from Ira Serkes and polled the group for what I should ask him to write about. Ginger Wilcox suggested, “Love.” That’s one of my favorite topics, so that’s what we went with.

I was going to just type in the poem he wrote for me, but you really can’t get a feel for the poems he writes without seeing them. So here it is. Thanks, Zach.

here she comes, walking up the aisle
the stewardess with the plastic smile
she’s moving at a turtle’s pace
a silly look upon her face
it appears to be glued just above her chin
that ever present, stupid grin
can’t she see i’m not in the mood
to watch someone else feel so good
she doesn’t mean it anyway
it’s just a game she’s paid to play
so, i think i’ll make my flight complete
and as she passes my prime aisle seat
i’ll trip her

jwturner
7/26/87
on the plane home

if i were a kid
i’d get up right now
and go play
i wouldn’t worry
about a thing
i’d walk right out
and cozy up
with the first toy
that caught my eye
or the first person
who crossed my path
and we’d laugh
for no reason
and dance around
without any music
and shout
and sing
and act silly
and fall down
on purpose
and think it was funny
and keep laughing
until our cheeks hurt

if i were a kid

jwturner
2/21/2009

her words were written on the page
but they had lips
and they spoke without the rage
that used to be us

i could hear her voice
inside my heart of hearts
so familiar i cried
for the first time since the end

for a moment
i wished she were near
holding me while i cried
telling me i had nothing to fear
making me believe it

but my tears fell on hardened ground
this heart of mine
and soon i couldn’t hear the sound
of her familiar voice inside my heart

it waits now in silence
ready to be torn apart
by more words from her

jwturner
7/1/87

after reading the first letter from cindy… after several years apart.