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Best Jack Jordan Poems

Below are the all-time best Jack Jordan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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French Bread

	
	
	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.
	
	
	
	
	
	



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Tanka 13

	
	
	
	Tanka 13
	
	
	anxiety and
	excitement are physio-
	logically i-
	dentical...  so sayeth my
	therapist    I’m not convinced
	
	
	
	
	
	01.14.14
	
	
	
	


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My Real Name

		
	
	
	
	
	
	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




	
	

	
		
	
	
	
	
	


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My Chance

	High coffered ceilings, 
	an odd filtered light, 
	mote constellations adrift,
	rooms enfilade... 

	In the room at the far end
	— the kitchen, it was — 
	I met my dead grandmother,
	her crooked corpse 
	bothering a hot stove, 
	boiling up a pot of her 
	awful, brown, sticky soup.
	She turned to me, as if to ask,
	“Do you want a bowl?” 

	Startled, I turned to leave
	(She was a ghost, after all...).
	Her boney hand, 
	still holding a soup ladle,
	brushed my right shoulder. 
	I turned. She whispered, 
	“You had your chance.”


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Haiku 60 - Indiana Summer

	
	
	
	
 	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...






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Disappearing: A List


   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.





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Recognition

	
	
	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.
	
	
	
	
	
	


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Amazing

		

                It’s something of a miracle, isn’t it, 
		how words are plastic magic and can fly, 
		given the proper propellant, 
		which in my opinion is “need,” 
		a compulsion to commit to paper 
		or to a listener’s ear 
		or a reader’s eye 
		the gist and heart 
		of that maelstrom 
		of syllables and sounds 
		screeching around 
		in some very needy cavern 
		buried deep in that mine 
		we call mind?
 
		Amazing... 


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True Companions

	
	
	
	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.
	
	
	
	





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Haiku 59

	
	
	Haiku 59
	
	black lake water
	shy yellow lotus buds
	next week’s flowers
	
	
	black lake water
	yellow flowers’ reflections
	bumblebees hover


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