Some of my old poems

Michael — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:38:29 GMT

I Know His Hands By Michael Travis Jasper In any place and time, I would know him by his hands. Toiling on a farm, working in the hay, Or folding a newspaper in the crowd of a city subway. Recognize the ridges and veins and the patterns of hair. The shape of his fingers and the skin that’s Nordic fair. Hands that I have never touched and know will not touch me. That fill my eyes and mind with thoughts of things that cannot be. I see in them a kind of strength and everything that’s male. My infatuation is a cross that I alone must carry. Cause though he knows my open secret, my lips will never tell. I try not to be in his face, my attention might be too scary. He’ll never hold mine, but…I know his hands. Scribe By Michael Travis Jasper Words flow. The cursor moves, or ink slides across the page. Someone new to this universe inhales as a thought becomes a person. An idea comes to life when letters and notions combine to move blood Through an imagined heart. A soul is made or pulled from the stuff of God. People created by human animals laugh and cry while the author is witness. With a keystroke or the flourish of the script Sometimes the character dies and the writer mourns. Feeling the loss known only to the Divine when the first man fell. Eventually the story tells itself and the one who makes the prose Can only record it. In the worlds of your mind, your will is law Until your spark of creative power makes them real and the players awaken, Inheriting the free will only Heaven’s Maker grants. Control shifts to the True Origin, The one with the pen just takes notes, capturing the vibe. The storyteller begins a god, and ends only a scribe. Seeking By Michael Travis Jasper Just look at them. Wandering through their lives like puppies, still blind, searching for mother’s milk to sustain them a few more hours… To feel satisfied just for a minute. But I don’t believe in it. That quick fix that makes the world okay, makes you okay, for a few days---or for a heartbeat. You can play that way, but you can’t win when you cheat yourself. People think that feeling good is the same as being happy, But it’s not. It’s empty distraction and it fools you, like thinking you got away with something because you didn’t get caught. Anyone looking directly at themselves and embracing all the truths can set down their addictions and forgo the circus. Unconditional acceptance burns away the need in us. Folks rush by. Waters in a canyon trying to carve a life through erosion, Via abrading, Instead they find their identity fading. Each wonders how he can feel so alone surrounded by loved ones, When they have surrendered themselves, erased individuality, in order to blend, Cravings are met by objects and by others for the satiation that they lend. So many men are desperate to stem the swelling tide Of quiet daily disappointments that, though repressed, won’t be denied. They believe that doing anything trumps nothing done at all, But only in the stillness can you hear your nature’s call. Frightened isolation lingers in each cage, I mean each mind, But just by zooming out so the bigger picture’s taken, We see the puppies are all in the same box, no matter what their kind, And there’s milk enough for everyone, not one need be forsaken.

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Some of my old poems