Poems
by Jake Sheff

 

 

The Seagull’s 136^th 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 152^nd 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. 

 

 

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