#bisonjack

[thejournalofbisonjack]

Dreams of Being

.

If we allow ourselves to

be guided by our instincts,

and stopped listening to

our thoughts, perhaps

the people we dreamed of

being one day might just

be the people we already are.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

A Minor Flourish in the Periphery

.

Soon the right words

would come to him;

no doubt unexpectedly,

he thought;

delivered, perhaps,

by the gamboling child in

the lavender-stained dress

or the small pudgy man

walking his small pudgy

dog—unleashed and curious.

Words, without a care in the

world. No second thoughts.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

The Photograph

.

In a box of my mother’s things

is a small black and white

photograph of my mother and

father when they were young.

There is nothing written on

the back of the photograph;

no time or place or sentiment.

But it is summer and they are

sitting together, barefoot on

the beach, their arms wrapped

around each other, smiling

for the camera.

My mother is wearing a white

cotton dress and my father an

open-necked shirt and trousers

with the cuffs rolled up.

Everything else is out of focus;

a million truths briefly at rest.

The sun is high in the sky.

There are no shadows.

Who do I belong to now you

have gone—what should I do

with all this love—I write on

the back of the photograph.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

A History of Love

.

A girl

walks into

the river.

A woman’s

body is

pulled from

the sea.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

In memory of my mother. The references in this poem are ones she would understand and I hope that wherever she is now, she may to get to read this with a smile.

The Tall Grass

-

The hallway smelled

of disinfectant and sage

as though somewhere in

the numbering of days

they hoped to disguise

the wilderness.

The arrows on the wall

pointed to where I had

been told to go then

followed me into the tall

grass and grove of

redwood trees to a field

of purple flowers that

sloped down to a stream

where behind a curtain

made from motes of dust

my mother lay in a sunbeam.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

Oasis Coffee Shop

.

After all,

we are but

the echoes

of our ancestors

held together

by the fatal swoon

of a miracle.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

The Editorial

.

Last night,

I walked home

along the curb

with my arms

stretched wide

as though it

were the same

tightrope that

had brought

me here from

childhood.

[thejournalofbisonjack]

The Swoon of Time

-

After all,

are we not

but the echoes

of a miracle,

held together by

the rhythms of

our own personal

mythologies and

the sound of a

reverberating bell.