Jocelyn Zoe

Posted on Jun 20, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

She does all things right
But even if she didn’t,
the mat would still welcome her to yoga—
beneath her form—
many days, forlorn.
But each touch of her hand
And bend of knee—
Each curl of a toe
brings him back a little more.

She does nothing wrong
But even if she did,
wrong would suddenly be right.
You’d see,
Religions would rewrite
their texts—
Day renamed Night.
Starting at her topmost feature
they’d start down
assigning letters to all her
fleshy parts
Ending at the ground.

And they’d write a song of passion, mirth.
A song commemorating
her happy birth.
A song of Summer and Spring
And Autumn.
Of those they’d sing.
But of Winter too.
For there’d be days when she’d feel sad.. ):
days, forlorn.
But if in those times, she reads this,
I hope it
brings her back a little more.

Happy Birthday to Me

Posted on Jun 10, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

Happy Birthday to me.
It takes just a second on waking to remember.
It’s June but it feels like December.
I roll from my bed,
spin to my feet,
stand and walk to the window
to see if anything’s changed.
Little things—
the grass is a bit longer, but not so much from yesterday.
The fence, it’s weathered,
but it’s been weathering forever.
And the street, its pavement that looked so new,
just one year ago,
now is cracked in its length—
And its full breadth—
its edges, at places, caving into the ditches.
This all reminds me of something.
Ah, but why try and remember?
It’s June but it feels like December.

My father once said,
you’ve a long way to go,
when referencing some age he’d held
like a job
at some firm,
with floor after floor rising into the clouds.
Before he climbed one floor too high,
And I never saw him again.

From this window, the sun’s rolling in,
and the breeze,
summer air,
its smells strip every care.
It’s been doing this for men
like my Dad and I,
for millions of years.

Just feet down our road
there’s a lake, carved deep in the soil
by masses of ice, which I’m positive
fanned out to the very place where I stand
Slowly cutting the world that I see,
left, right,
every feature in sight,
into being.

I imagine myself in a lawn chair,
sitting atop it,
riding this ice like a madman,
as it creeps inch by inch
Forging new reality
for the next generation of riders.

Happy Birthday

Posted on Feb 15, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Tack up the ribbons,
the banners, with tape,
Set the table with tablecloth,
bright cups and plates.
Tell Grandma it’s time to bring in the cake.
Let all the faces crowd round you,
smiling and singing.
Happy Birthday so loud,
your ears are ringing.
Blow out the candles
with closed eyes and wish.
Pass ’round the cake
on bright, party dish.