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Jack Jordan Poem
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Haiku 60 – Indiana Summer
Indiana
orange roadside lilies
rural splendor
Indiana
elephant’s eye corn
no tassels yet
Indiana
endless green soybean fields
rich farmland soil
a strange beauty
stark yet soothing vistas
Indiana
For SKAT – OZ’s “summer poems” contest...
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
New never is...
(Charles Wood)
We are but voyeurs,
peering through the iris
of the painter’s eye’s recording
details of a scene
not meant for sharing,
when wealth and power
are kith and kin
of the common man,
and rank hath neither
meaning nor memory
or power over
the passions,
the needs of youth,
the sway of love,
the slip of flesh on flesh,
the scent of earth,
the consequence.
Do you not feel the crackle of
fear and violence,
smell as I do
shame and desperation,
comprehend the role of
each of the players
by the masks they wear?
Imagine if you will
the hours sure to follow:
the actions dictated by convention;
the disregarded pleas;
the assignment of blame;
the mean whispers;
the banishment;
the unchangeable fortunes.
If only it were true
that love will triumph
instead of being mere
frayed threads of duty.
At last the artist looks away
from the unfortunate scene,
quelling memories
far too close for comfort.
For Isaiah Zerbst’s contest.
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Haiku 103
my being’s
deepbreath I slowly
e x h a l e
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
My Real Name
All I want from this life
is that you know my real name,
not the one my mother gave me
in remembrance of no one
she ever knew other than my father,
but rather the one which says
that I once lightly touched
something divine,
that I lived too long
in the sticky pit of addiction,
that I was a high-diver,
easily piercing the
membrane of reality,
that I was once a magician,
a weaver of incantations,
the alchemist who found gold,
that I danced with you
among the eastern clouds
on those fine mornings,
my suit of light glowing
yellow and orange and red,
that I lay with you
in the chocolate darkness
of summer’s night,
dew like starlight in your hair,
that I was cloud-shadow
flying up Yellowstone valley
on cold mountain air,
vanishing over the near horizon,
and gone.
That’s my name,
all of it and more that I can’t recall.
I know you will remember.
12.10.2013
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Recognition
There I am again,
in the wall-size mirror
at the gym,
myself seeing myself,
a compulsion of sorts,
a checking-in
to see what has changed.
My bent and rotated spine
is always the same —
a very noticeable dog-leg
listing me to port.
There are those
who look at themselves
each morning in the mirror
and think,
“Damn, I look good.”
Perhaps the guy at the gym
with the triangular upper body
and tree-thick thighs does this,
but I don’t know him,
so he doesn’t count.
I don’t feel very old inside
except on cloudy, wet days.
My exterior says otherwise;
that doesn’t matter much now.
I know shadowy mortality
lies in wait. Occasionally
I hazard a quiet guess
about the time I have left,
a fruitless contemplation,
leading only to
gloom and foreboding.
Most often I move on
to meaningful pursuits:
driving much too fast,
eating ice cream,
making love,
writing and painting
to sustain my soul.
Some believe that one should,
"Live fast, die young,
leave a good-looking corpse."
I regret not living fast enough in my youth,
I’m thankful I’m not James Dean,
and ashes are only as beautiful
as the urn in which they are stored.
So, henceforth I shall marvel
at my visage in the mirror,
appreciating both my continued presence
and the elegant curve of my crookedness.
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Haiku 59
black lake water
shy yellow lotus buds
next week’s flowers
black lake water
yellow flowers’ reflections
bumblebees hover
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Tanka 13
anxiety and
excitement are physio-
logically i-
dentical... so sayeth my
therapist I’m not convinced
01.14.14
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2014
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Jack Jordan Poem
True Companions
There’s a finite place
in a life’s ill-defined time,
an Alice-like membrane,
if you will, when
at the instant
of passing through,
presence and absence
co-exist, life and death
are true companions.
I know a thing or two
about this side,
the presence from which
I write of
love and pain,
uncertainty,
insanity,
birthday cake with ice cream,
childhood memories,
bullies,
the touch of my lover.
My-knowing isn’t
all-knowing, of course.
Lives cross and diverge,
only to meet again at
that instant of passing-through,
bringing into question,
what’s on the other side?
Go ask Alice.
I think she’ll know.
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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Jack Jordan Poem
Disappearing: A List
• Leave for no destination in particular.
• Plastic surgery.
• Burn my wallet and shoes.
• Buy or steal an identity;
become another.
• Run into the forest,
wear a wolf’s skin,
look and smell
wolfish downwind.
• Yield my being in
an intimate exchange,
to the thrall of
scotch or peyote or cocaine
or intense pleasure or pain.
• Be subsumed into the
collective mind of a cult
or the Secret Service
or the Carthusians
• Become young rather than old.
• Die, just because.
It’s just a list of possibilities.
Nothing more.
Not a complete one at that.
Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013
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