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Best Poems Written by Jonathan Zeitlin

Below are the all-time best Jonathan Zeitlin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

Broken Machines

It’s the key, and the unlocking.
It’s the face staring down from the 13th floor
while we look up, squinting at the sun.
Everybody’s on the run
and looking behind them,
knocking on closed doors
while looking through the hole
and wishing it was locked.
Still staring down from the top floor
at the ants in the street,
wanting to jump
but unable to open the window.
Too many people milling about,
too many people whispering, thinking
that they are shouting, and
wanting to open the door.

We’re all broken machines,
crude and mean,
trying to dismantle each other
to see how we work,
each of us a genius in our own right.
We are all rabbits or vultures,
switches and levers.
We are sometimes tools
who need to repair
to feel like they are still good,
and then we are killers and devourers
and animals sniffing
and creeping in circles.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

My Regrets

My regrets are speaking softly,
Guttural sounds too low for me to hear
And in a tongue strange to my ear
But ominous as a black cloud,
And I fear that one day
The Tower of Babel will lean in,
Grinding on ancient stones,
And unlock those odious words for me,
Revealing everything I already knew
Was wrong
But refused to accept.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

Hindsight

It was during his winter and before his expiration
When he bade me to come sit beside him.

In between the sounds of a life, enforced,
Those machines were all that controlled
The course of his blood. Soon enough, he said,
I will return to my source,
But for now, listen to me.

In love, I failed.
In life, I sailed
Across the sea.
I did what I pleased
Because my measure of life was in the ocean breeze,
Each second a dram,
Each hour a bottle of whatever the barkeep had.

Ever since I was a lad, I sought adventure.
The path ahead was my only treasure.
My shovel broke the earth and wherever it landed, I planted seed,
But I never stood by to watch them grow.

I never thought of death or let anything else restrain me.
Freedom was my only need.
But a path with no destination is an endless spiral
And its meandering route only
A diversion from the monotony
For what is such freedom, but distraction without a goal?

What the old man wants is
What the young man refused.
Choose, or one day be alone.

You will plant me in the earth soon enough,
He said,
And rudder your way through a choppy sea.
Find your path and enjoy the road.
Break the earth with your shovel,
And don’t fear the acceptance of some of the load.

Take the path, but read the signs,
And know when it’s time to stop for a while.

But what the young man denied
Is what the old man chooses.
And yet we are all hypocrites,
Even in that.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

There Is Beauty In the Ugly

I sing of the afternoon of life, 
Of beaches shifting in such tiny ways;
Throes of death is what they are,
Under the light of a softly dying star,
When eyes full of wonder and hope 
Stare into a sky
Made beautiful by the ugliness of transition
And the contingent world of vision and smell
Where only the blind and dumb can tell 
That life doesn't really give a  about 
what you’ve done with yourself all these years.

Let the rain and wind pick up a bit
And clutch the world in a wet embrace.
I don’t really care, you see.
Let the drops mingle on my face,
A beacon for what hides inside.
I wear my disguise to bed each night
And when I wake I certainly stand
So that it's not noticeable.

My window provides a stark picture of a dim horizon
In the agony of acceptance
That every day is a painful step closer,
And those that don’t feel agony are numb.
Or maybe just dumb.

From the wisdom of poets long dead
And the simple thoughts of those
Who don’t mean anything to you
Come the answers we seek:
Words that illustrate our ideas
And the satisfaction of knowing that
Other people can feel the texture
Of the thoughts you hold
Inside.
Surely wisdom has no higher price
Than the realization that
Everything you think and feel 
Has already been discussed.

Beauty and understanding once meant something, 
But now they vie for attention with
Baser things, trivial things
Only meaningful in their relativity,
Along with knowledge, (what a funny word)
Which once meant knowing what was right 
And what was not and knowing the difference.
Now it seems clear that true knowledge
Is only the acceptance that
We know nothing more than that which
We cannot change.
As flowers grow, bloom, and die, so must our 
understanding ever be compromised and evaluated.

From the ramparts fall 
The sonnets of those most have forgotten,
And maybe you’ll blink, mouth moving 
Like a fish in the sand,
Gasping as you realize the futility
Of accepting anything 
But what you wanted so desperately to believe,
But like any myth, eventually 
you will uncover the trickery
And try to accept it without anger or grief,
Because once the movie’s over, 
You’re just in a big room of people
Staring at a blank screen.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

The Pointless Ritual

Nothing but horses on a merry go round,
painted faces, costumes and lies based on facts.
We’re all wearing masks
that disguise us from ourselves more than others,
making it so hard for anyone to really know at all
what they want or need until they lose it.
There is no typical or expected or proper or appropriate;
only expectations of propriety
and viability of options
and hiding tears behind smiles
and running up hills and down aisles.
It’s padded chairs and seat belts
and artificial light
and plans never completed-
Love never returned,
and electric blankets and solitary music
and pictures of angels
and books about lovers.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

Tell Me Not To Care

Everywhere I go, you’re still there.
They say all’s fair in love and war
And before, I believed it,
But deception is a wake up call
And I’ve received it.

Love and hate,
How you manipulate the past to suit you.
I can’t even tell if what I remember is true
Because your lies and facts are so intermixed,
Like flowers and weeds in a dirty garden. 

You’re a constant reminder that 
Life offers no guarantee
And no happy ending.
You keep bending the story until
Even my friends don’t know what to think.

Tell me to come back
And I’d do it. 
Swallow my pride- 
No, wait, 
I won’t put myself through it again.

You’re the cigarette left in the pack 
After I quit.
The booze left in the bottle 
After the liver’s gone to . 
And now I’ve accepted it.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

Gray

“Is gray a color?” the pigeon asked the clouds.

“We’re not sure,” said the clouds, then asked, “Why?”

The pigeon shrugged and said, “See the robin, brown and red?”
“And the yellow finch flying by?”
“Such color and beauty they have, to me,”
“And I am but gray and drab instead.”

“Is gray a color?” the clouds asked themselves,
And watched the pigeon fly,
They thought about the question again,
And said, “We don’t know, but you should ask the sky.”

So the pigeon asked the sky.

The sky looked down at the robin and the finch,
Then looked down at the ground, 
Saw the grass, the earth, the buildings,
And was surprised at what he found.

“I see many things,” said the sky,
“Blues and browns, reds and greens,
Blacks and whites, too. And grays,
Just like you.”

“And I think,” said the sky, “who am I to decide
What is a color, and what is not?
Sometimes I am white, and sometimes, blue
And sometimes black, or even silver, like you.
So if all of these things are colors,
Why not gray, too?”

And the clouds listened very carefully,
Because the clouds needed the answer, too.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

The Daily Grind

Nothing but horses on a merry go round,
painted faces, costumes, and lies based on facts.
We’re all wearing masks
that disguise us from ourselves more than others,
making it so hard for anyone to really know at all
what they want or need until they lose it.
There’s no typical or expected 
or proper or appropriate;
only expectations of propriety
and the viability of options,
hiding tears behind smiles,
running up hills and down aisles.
It’s padded chairs and seat belts
and artificial light
and plans never completed,
love never returned,
and electric blankets and solitary music
and pictures of angels
and books about lovers.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

The Shore

From the shore I watched the ship
And imagined I was there.
Closed my eyes and felt the spray
Of ocean in my face and hair.
“One day,” I said to myself,
“I will be there.”

From the ship I glanced at the shore
And saw a boy standing there
And I remembered that once,
That boy was me,
Dreaming of the day
I would be free.

From the shore
I watch the sea.
Gone was the ship that carried me
Away, that grand yesterday,
When I was alive and free,
But tomorrow I will return here

To the shore.

Details | Jonathan Zeitlin Poem

Don'T Turn On the Light

I see my reflection
and it reminds me of a deep well
whose dark surface 
bubbles and distorts whatever image
manages to survive the descent,
leaving a monster
I do not recognize
swirling in the ancient brick and mortar
seeking purchase 
in that which it reflects.