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Best Jack Jordan Poems

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

View ALL Jack Jordan Poems

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

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.
	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 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

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

Haiku 60 - Indiana Summer

 	Haiku 60 – Indiana Summer
	orange roadside lilies
	rural splendor
	elephant’s eye corn
	no tassels yet
	endless green soybean fields
	rich farmland soil
	a strange beauty
	stark yet soothing vistas

	For SKAT – OZ’s “summer poems” contest...

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

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.



Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

New Never is - Charles Wood

	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

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

Tanka 13

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

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

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, 
		birthday cake with ice cream, 
		childhood memories, 
		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

Details | Jack Jordan Poem


	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

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

Haiku 103

	Haiku 103
	my being’s
	deepbreath    I slowly
	e  x  h  a  l  e

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

Haiku 59

	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

Details | Jack Jordan Poem

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.”

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013