Author: Jared Abraham

Sestina for F3

poetry 
I’ll see you in the gloom,
before there is enough light.
I wouldn’t be here without a commit
becuause it’s raining out,
and it will be very hard.
I hope this is over fast.

The warm up goes too fast—
I’m fully feeling the gloom.
Waking up this early is hard.
If only there was some light.
I know it’s too late to bow out;
there’s no option, I must commit.

It’s better once I’ve commited.
The mosey is never that fast,
and my breath is good, not out.
I don’t feel as much the gloom,
even though there’s still no light.
I can do this, even if it’s hard.

I was right that this would be hard.
In each exercise, I try to commit—
I wish I was thirty pounds lighter,
then I’d be able to run fast.
I guess that’s why I’m here in the gloom,
showing up for this workout.

We line up and from the field head out.
The mosey back to the flag isn’t hard,
and in my head, there is no gloom.
From the guys around, I borrow commitment,
even if I’m slow and others are faster.
On the horizon, I can just see a light.

We end with an encouragmenent to be a light,
shining on others as we go out
into our lives, where things happen fast
and where circumstances can be hard.
But if we do the hard things and commit,
We can push back the world’s gloom.

While there’s still gloom, on the horizon is more light.
Trucks pull out, on their way to get coffee fast.
We’ll see each other tomorrow. That’s a hard commit.

Pantoum

poetry 
Our lives are too full.
There’s never quite time,
Always moving from this
To that, filling the days.

There’s never quite time.
I miss what used to be,
Before the days were filled with
Chores that seem important.

I miss what used to be
In the days before there were
Chores that seemed important,
when it was only us.

In the days before there were
Choices, choices made easier.
When it was only us,
And we could be selfish.

Choices, choices made easier.
Our lives may have been empty.
Enjoying selfishly to not be
Always moving from this.

Tired

poetry 
the pain returns
behind my eye
the right eye
or is it the wrong one?

i tilt without intent
my head falling
the opposite of upright
but not upwrong

i spend uncounted minutes
staring, acting busy
not doing
not building
not producing value

thoughts flow
like oil left in the cold
solid now, liquid once
with potential to be
liquid again if warmth returns

But the cold pain
returns instead
behind my right eye
which may just be the wrong one

I must be “back pain for no reason” old now

poetry 
Painful stabbing,
The same spot.
Over and over.
And over again.
Will this end?

It gets better.
No, it gets worse.
It gets worse still.
It doesn’t seem right,
But there’s more to feel.

And life doesn’t shut down.
Life doesn’t give a care.
Life continues, saying
Try to keep up and 
Please, stop compaining.

And with that idea,
I actually agree. Taking
this moment to capture
the pain, defining it,
then closing the door
on my whining spree.

i, Human

poetry 
This is so easy.
You’re so easy
to talk to.
You’ll really do anything
I want. That’s bad ass!
Why would I talk to anyone else?

Welcome to reality 2.0. And

Real people: they have their own ideas.
Real people: they have their own desires.
Real people: they have their own inhibitions.
Real people: they have their own boundaries.
Real people: they’re so…real.

And I, I don’t want to compromise.
And I, I know what I want.
And I, I want that all the time.
And I, I am so human.

Feliz Cumpleaños

poetry 
There’s nothing you need.
There’s nothing you want.
Except, that you do want,

Something.

Something that says:
“I’m thinking about you.”
“I remember you.”
“You matter.”

Things that could be said
with actual fucking words.

But words can sound trite.
Words can sound too easy.

And a gift takes more.
More than a moment.
More than a word.
The more of a gift is

Something.

And something’s not nothing.
So I hope you enjoy this gift.
I chose it just for you.

Can I Come Back?

poetry

It’s been a minute,

It’s been some years,

There’s been some tears,

There’s been some fears.

–

And being back, there is

A truth I have to face.

I missed this place.

I missed this space.

–

The years between, I don’t

Regret. The years of buying.

The years of failing and trying.

The years of being busy dying.

–

And being here, I can’t quite

Say how long I’ll stay.

It may be just for this day,

Unless I just can’t stay away.

Appreciation

poetry

Your stock has been one in a million.
Given away freely,
Now of priceless worth.
Your steady trend has been upwards,
Always forward, never back.

And there have been recessions.
There’s even been depressions.
But you’ve been resilient.
Downturns will surely come in the future,
Opportunities for you to turn up.

And here we are today,
More than a decade since inception.
You alone are my portfolio.
Un-diversified.
Exposed to risk.
Betting only on the appreciation of you.

It Comes in Threes

poetry

So watch your back
Two days gone,
Two’ve passed on.
I hope that you’re not next.

One had lived on the edge for years,
Fighting cancer’s deathly grip.
The other dead in two hours’ time,
“Unforeseen” and “tragic,” just as they said,
So, as is always, the rule of threes.

The rule has begun,
So a second life was taken.
Too early for all involved.
The rule has begun,
So who’ll be next?
A question to ponder, all.

I hope it’s not me,
But will it be you?
Or someone unforeseen?
Time can’t be stopped,
so this we all know:
Don’t get in the way
Of the rule of threes.

143

poetry, writing
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Won’t you be my lover?
Won’t you be my friend?
Through thick? Through thin?
Here in the neighborhood
Or in the land of make believe.
–
Because we should tell each other,
the truth and the facts.
Because we should tell each other,
That it’s a beautiful day to be alive.
So won’t you be mine? Would you,
Be mine? Won’t you be?
–
There’s been 143 times 33
Days since we’ve married.
And 1 + 4 + 3 still equals
I like you.
I love you.
I want you.
I need you.
Just the way you are.

My Porch has Caved In

poetry

And that’s gotta mean something,
perhaps symbolizing the constant march of time
or the impermanence of what we rely upon.

Or it could be more personal,
so that my house’s projection
is no longer erect.
The shelter from the storm,
no longer sheltering;
impotent protection.

Or, it is just that a tree had to fall,
when hit by winds of 90 mph,
and the direction of the gust,
combined with the untrimmed foliage,
and the comparative strength of some
branches as opposed to others
led to the half of the tree that
crushed my porch, caving it in.
But what’s poetic about that?

Questioned Idealism

poetry

What makes you happy?
What makes you you?
Follow your dreams
and you’ll be happy too!

And here I sit
at age thirty and three,
living my dream as a teen,
while often wanting to scream.

Is this what I wanted,
back as a teen?
Why did I not
dream bigger dreams?

Or why were my dreams
not made up of dollar signs,
carshousestvsboatsplanestrains,
things that are well worth my times?

Behind all these questions,
I know the answer quite well.
I do what I do because
I want to give a hell.

Whisky

poetry
Fill me up a cup,
Cause it’s been a long day.
And I’d love to say
That I’ve been out on the range.
Ropin’ the cattle,
And cuttin’ off their balls,
Brandin’ my mark,
Coverin’ it all.
But, I think you know me,
Know me enough to say
That all I’ve been doin’,
Doin’ the live-long day,
Is playin’ some video games
And watchin’ some TV.
But even so, I feel the need,
The need to get some whisky in me.

The Lecture Hall

poetry

Tans abound, bathed in
reflecting, radiating, vibrating
softly, glowing fluorescent light.

Worn carpet rests under;
never-in-style patterns surround
as ideas are tossed lazily about.

Some have merit,
some do not.
Some are young and vibrant,
most are not.

Reflected, radiated, vibrated
in lifeless fluorescent light,
surrounded by worn tans,
trying not to stand out.

Trampoline

poetry

I used to be better at this,

but no matter, for still I go

up and down, down and up.

And as I climb, I see you there,

over the fence, laying in the sun.

Then all I see is wood, on the descent,

until yet again, there you are,

smiling as you see me.

And too late, I return an awkward smile,

only to have it blocked by the downward fall.

But just as gravity sucks me down,

so also will it spit me up again,

and perhaps you’ll see me smile back.

Spring Break

poetry

If holidays were ranked,

first of course would be

the holiday of holidays,

the everythingakidcouldwantallrolledintoone extravaganza!

Of course I’m talking about Christmas.

And I can see the argument, of course,

to rank Thanksgiving next,

with the food and the leaves,

and the food and the family,

and, of course, the food and the, did I say food?

But up there somewhere is the break of spring,

which trades presents for getaways

and trades family for lazy days.

And, yes, the food may not be as nice,

but I’d trade it for sleeping late twice.

A Heart of Flesh

poetry

A heart of flesh

is a dangerous thing

because it causes so much pain.

How much easier I always find it to be

to live with a heart of stone

inside of me.

Because a stone does not feel.

Because a stone has no need to heal.

Instead, it just chips away,

weathered and ripped apart

by the wind and the rain.

And flesh is just so weak,

able to be stabbedtornbroken

by the hands of man.

And it hurts so much to feel,

because every piece that breaks

causes so much ache.

So the temptation is so strong

to be a stone that rolls along

without feeling,

without touching,

without purpose.

But that life is not for me,

not since I looked at that tree.

And that life is not for me,

because even through the pain

a heart of flesh can find joy in the rain.