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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
I wrestle with my words in aimlessness when I write.
Poetry is a relationship to me, it's a troubled courtship.
I can't come to reasonable reform in words on the spot..
but rather seek intimacy with my thoughts in attempt.
The two of us, man and his romantic notions,
carelessly Laid into tousled affections on a page.
I love her, and the page, she spurns me willfully.
I love her, and grasp in hopelessness to understand her.
I give my undivided attention, my eyes wander her form.
I've sought shamelessly to appease her whispered desires.
But she is a selfish lover, asking for more than can be given.
She, the playful counterpart in a field of rationality, often eludes me.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2016
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
She smiles and my name is said with such unbound glee.
Though not the one I was born with, this one that holds more meaning.
Alike her brother too will call it though in harmonized repeat like waves in slow repetition. As his bare feet slap surface and he approaches.
The understanding of it's meaning escapes me for the moment, though my heart knows it's significants, my mind can't wrap around it.
They hold the key to my day and in their actions can build me up or break me. But when happy I too am happy, the world's a warmer place.
In thought alone, I then reflect on my comings and my goings. My name is mentioned in parting sorrow and in joyful arrival.
My name eluded then, bright illuminated now. I know my greater purpose. To teach them of moral and respect, to teach of right and wrong.
My goal is to teach them to love, as another FATHER shows me. Though I may often falter, I am my children's "Daddy" as they so heartwarmingly remind me.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2017
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
My uncle Dran was an odd sorta man
who never much cared for livestock.
But wouldn't you know he kept a pig he loved so,
and named the fat thing, Ham hock.
Of little he cared but for the pig's dinner fare
and a desire to keep him from block.
No butcher you'd see would stand a chance or a plea,
to separate Dran and Ham hock.
One day on a walk came a squeal and a squawk
as they passed a farmland flock.
As a sow named Bacon took to squalling and chasing,
to the delight of old Ham Hock.
Bacon was bought after a hard bargain fought,
she was Dran's hog for the takin.
And never could one part, the sow and the old fart,
know as Ham Hock and Bacon.
To this day down the lane, if you travel again.
there's a legend for books in the makin.
For the piglets o' plenty, of the pigs, Dran has many,
cause he won't eat Ham hock or Bacon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pink Domino Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
7/29/2016
Placed 10th
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2016
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
A wildflower grows on the cobblestoned streets of this dingy town,
Among the dirt and debris left behind by the seasons.
A misplaced beauty working her way up among the cracks between
the rocks of this place she calls home.
About her, the hustle and bustle of life worms its way in and out of
the shops, searching for refinement and riches.
The flower shop with its roses, tulips, and lilies well cared for by
the hand of the man who procures them.
She wonders what the touch of his hand might mean, the potted rich soil,
and frequently bath of water. To be cared for.
She waits ever the patient instead for drops of rain, a word of kindness
from a world lording above her on these hallowed streets.
Ignored, overlooked and unadmired. She, the common girl of the flower
kingdom, to simple to be dressed in the gown of the rose.
Too wilted and torn to be worthy of the vibrant colors of the tulip,
and nowhere exotic enough to be the lily. she, the wildflower.
She grows up below the broken walls caused by the destruction
of her cities life, in a land once ravaged by war and worry.
Her head held high, her arms stretched out, ever waiting for her rain.
For her's is not a story of defeat, but the promise of victory.
For when the flowers of the shop are put away each night and the shop closes,
she stands alone with the evening breeze on her face.
Clothed the way the gods saw fit and for this brief moment, she feels
just beautiful enough not to be seen as common.
Were any to love her, any to hold her, any to give her the time of day,
or a moment in a million moments, they'd have her forever.
she like the spirit of our city, rebuilt. she rises still, she grows still, to cut her low
is to stunt her, but only for the season, only for the now.
She's surely lost love in her day, but love is found where -it- chooses
to be, not always where -we- choose it to be.
.....uncompromising.......
Some things of beauty were meant to last while others fade
....and wildflowers grow where they will.
(((poem wrote for a story after a town was destroyed by war, on a forum I attend. It took first place out of several applicants. But here it reminds me of my poem about the pine tree in winter. Along the same lines of elegance in a woman. This more about the poorer girl, neglected and overlooked... a statement that all women are beautiful, no matter their station or situation)
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2017
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
(This is a poem I wrote about the power of words. Even if you're a gentle soul who'd never lift a hand to harm another, sometimes out of anger, our words do more damage)
I don't like breaking you.
My hands were built to fix you.
but my tongue cuts you.
my words smash you.
and in it... I am destroyed.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2016
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
Being HSP:
Sound drowns out sound, I'm found overwhelmed,
...there's a chaos that's building inside.
My thoughts won't relent, my emotions are spent,
...and my angst just can't be denied.
With lights that are bright, and pains out of sight,
...this souls ecosystem is a fragile thing.
Like I'm frozen in winter, set to shatter and splinter,
...desperate for the early onset of spring.
My mind has been had, so "Am I broken too bad?"
...the nagging question stirs from within.
But, don't fret for me, nor yourself you must see,
...this isn't where our story comes to end.
We're stronger than we know, don't cut yourself low,
...being what we are is a privilege to few.
With gifts we have plenty, and we're heartfelt to many,
...those who care know there's no one like you.
Some of this may not fit, but others do, you must admit,
...we all have our own strong proclivity.
With our rich inner lives, and on subtleties thrive
...we have imagination and creativity.
Some of us are wise, some are passionate, some advise,
...we are as beautifully arrayed as the stars.
We are empathetic, some artistic, while others scientific
...lift your chin, don't give in, own HSP, it is ours.
Your compassion is unique, with kindness others seek,
...Those who know you set you apart.
Don't regret these great gifts, your word it uplifts,
...people look up to you for your deep heart.
I must leave you with this, whether unhappy or in bliss,
...we are bigger than the weaknesses we see.
Don't forget that we're rare, with this trait that we share,
...I'm thankful that you're in this with me.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2018
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
A poem for the loved ones we've lost.
I awoke this lonely, dreary, day
to all the clouds of steely gray
life's vibrant colors losing hue
with not but empty things to do
Till the rain falls in its contempt
To mock the many tears I've spent
its blurring haze caused disarray
Drowns the mind of things we'd say
Sat there by windows of the past
these things in life that never last
My broken thoughts, storm through
As I awoke this day still missing you
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2021
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
Dear Grandpa,
Are you aware that you can still get social security income if you act now?
Did you know that Capital One and Visa want to give you credit cards?
Magazines offering tractor and farm equipment deals, building up on my table.
There's an old farm hat in the barn on a pitchfork handle, waiting for its owner.
Orchards are overgrowing, the trees with their sprouts and limbs busting.
Fields in the hands of new owners, being cultivated, some by your sons.
Your "closest friends" all showing up at my door to ask if you're around.
Your "closest friends" showing up at my door, asking for hay, or to hunt.
The sheds and barns all in need of repair, the roofs are in need of replacing.
With fences to mend, equipment to fix, this farm never ceases its needing.
There are tools rusting in longing of use. Cupboards and shelves full of oil.
You've been gone for twenty long years, seems like no one else knows it.
But never let it be said that those who truly were close, forgot what we lost.
Your family still misses you dearly... I just thought that you should know it.
Your grandson,
Jesse.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2016
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
The roadside implement left without attendant,
an objective lesson of technology progression.
Long lacking use, should be rot and rust.
Yet is anything but, even years without digging rut.
A hand once guided, a horse once dragged.
Hung up like the harness, and the feed bag.
So roadside it sits, repainted and new.
A plow, a tool of a past we honor, that men would use.
Historic and remembered, now a monument,
to the hard working farmer and time that he spent.
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2017
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Jesse Zerlaut Poem
We talk in a world where no one will hear.
Made so deaf by what we all feel and fear.
We're dark smoking, popped bulbs at night.
Burned out, shattered, spreading no light.
Now wars are waged in once peaceful streets.
and law enforcers afraid to walk their old beats.
No side is good, no side is bad, we're to blame.
One people, the same blood, stoking this flame.
Media coverage ignites, Social pandemics arise.
we're war-torn and broken, our moral demise.
Words that are typed, and the memes we see.
The modern age communication, troll mentality.
If I could rewrite the universe, remove the pain.
Make this a place we can breathe once again.
A place where our children can live in peace.
Where each man is met at his simplest needs.
If one light could cause the darkness to hide.
What of thousands? letting go of their pride.
I'd see the light bulbs shine, as we rise above.
Bred in merciful hearts of unconditional love.
If I could change the world, this would be true.
With peace and prosperity for me and for you.
It's not socialism, communism, I hope you see.
It's compassion and restoration of our humanity.
(wrote for "If I could change the world" Challenge hosted by: Becca Teagan)
Copyright © Jesse Zerlaut | Year Posted 2016
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