Poems
by Jake
Sheff
The Seagull’s 136th Seguidilla
Long as I remember, waves
At Tillamook Head
Have done a bang-up job of
Burying the dead.
But that lighthouse seethes
When I’m burning on the sea
Like a fire that breathes.
The Seagull’s 152nd Seguidilla
Widely held opinions will
Always imprison
Words, and never not inspire
Their opposition,
The poets. A globe
With terricolous seagulls
Is thanks to James Loeb.
Come Read Wind Power for Clara Barton
Nurse, humanitarian, founder and first president of the American Red Cross
The best bestirred, in wet sleeves, steered. What’s right
must flow and not stand still. Regrets veered left,
regurgitated first responders right
away and left. This wooly gust, with heft
acquired (N.B.) true love’s felt.
But other people can’t decide to change
the world they hate and love their lives; we felt
like cottonwoods. Congenital loose change
was all she paid for good. The liquid turmoil
and distant congregation, called “My ward”
by her, of ages hence will not curtail
their days until the sun’s febrile. My word,
I often wonder at the ground’s cerise
responsibility and near surcease!
The First Lady Visits Nibbinda Forest Monastery
In Balik Pulau, nutmegs redress
the traffic in George Town and redness
on Route 6 as the First Lady arrives.
A gift of oranges studded with cloves
is bestowed by local schoolgirls:
pomanders for a soft voyage to
the central hills. A green hornbill
perches on a mangrove, preaches to
her motorcade and camera
about how to buy the love of fat
winds like Kedah’s. The forest is cased
by her security detail and in mist.
A goodwill tour of unrewarded
victors and history (less human in
its frailty) reworded; she’s getting used
to it. She climbs the narrow path
and ethos, bids a fond, methodical
farewell to The Gazette – (difficulty
makes for easy grace) – to omit
what isn’t bashful from the past; “duty’s
vomit unrequited by the gut,” she terms it.
A Duplex Only Turns 65 Twice
“‘Yes, yes, yes. I'll be as quick as I can! You young people take everything so tragically! Lack of experience, that's what it is!’ said Zhou Rui's wife, and moved on to Dai-yu's room.”
Cao Xuequin, The Story of the Stone: The Golden Days (Volume 1)
The Sopranos suggests a good ending
Doesn’t exist, while Mad Men says it’s a new
Beginning, and Breaking Bad insists on
Its being a good death. I, for one, agree
With all three: marriage does an ending good.
Too able to hope that I’ll get more leisure
Anytime soon has made life seem hellish.
After watering the roadside sweet peas,
I buckle back in for Agua Dulce.
Something of an anfractuosity,
Neither my thought nor this day are as farkakte
As they seem. Here’s hoping that hope’s affianced
To what’s possible tonight. For dreams too dark,
Sopranos reveal the happiest ending.
A Connecticut Wedding…
After Sir Walter Scott’s “The Bloody Vest,” from The Talisman
For Nathan Sheff and Jourdan White
…Fytte for a King
Not too far from the house where Mark Twain wrote
Many a check to his debtors, not
At all far from the Concord grapes’ upvote
When the Royal Purple Smoke-bush’s coat
Turns the color of hard hats, pumpkin stout
Prepares to be poured and to put the haute
Outhouse to work. There’s a union afoot,
So even the dancing spider’s of note.
Tonight was illuminated by monks
On Iona eons ago. Its pinks
Have come from farther away than the trunks
Aglow in a Yankee innkeeper’s blinks.
With quiet steps and even quieter honks
The clouds make their exit. The moon gives thanks
Immodestly. Isis purrs and she thinks
‘Meow-garitas’ the finest of drinks.
Like the Quinnipiac, this canopy
Is in flux, but its wilting leaves will be
The greenest they’ve ever been when they see
The two shapes of true love’s sagacity.
As branches untwine, spring peepers might flee,
And between the two barks from Gemini
We might hear two vows that would cause A.I.
Perfected to cry and naturally die.
Time pulls my leg, and the party bus
A uey. Both aunts and uncles discuss
The mountain-laurel withholding its peace.
Grooms feel like an aerogram on thin ice
(As well they might), but the topaz and gauze
Of joy have revealed in my brother’s voice
Tonight the contentment of Spanish moss.
Light like a nutmeg comes from the house.
…Fytte for a Queen
A six-string spreads a strange sickness…The breeze
In the newlyweds’ yard this morning plays
With the flower petals strewn by Renee’s
Honesty yesterday evening. Bees,
In relentless to-ing and fro-ing, tease
The beanbags that seem in midair to pause
Above bocce balls that too seem to freeze
In this warm and autumnal razzmatazz.
My newspaper at the Hilton Hotel
(My breakfast) replaced each tile in the mall
With lava (cf. Eugene O’Neill
And the timeless Beinecke stacks, et al),
But this white and yellow hour’s been full
Of nothing but fairy dust. There’s a skull
On every shelf, and Claude Bourgelat’s soul
Makes them grinders, each on a manna roll.
Collective Utility’s pregnant with
A religion again as the Macbeth
Of crawdads hides in a juniper’s myth.
When the nearest thing to earnest is wrath,
One expects from Mystic Seaport a wreath,
Cocktails and suchlike provisions. Math
From New Haven tittups onto our path
Instead, singing, “Love has entered the chat!”
In eyeliner and an ordinary black
Crown, the night will inevitably stake
Its claim. The maieutic moonlight will talk
Like a minatory drum solo. Cake
Espouses no insincere science, cake
Left out in the rain gave birth to the flock
Of seagulls at Bradley Airport. Doves take
I-91 to love’s handwritten lake.
