i try and keep him out
while he brings me down
always is around
the fool in me

not about
to shut his mouth
must love his sound
the fool in me

no lessons learned
while he takes his turn
with nothing earned
the fool in me

always first
with the dirt
but not the cure
the fool in me

like a hound
chases his tail around
too many times to count
the fool in me

runs his mouth
with no thought about
what comes out
the fool in me

Little girls grow up
with their mamas
and they love them
for the rest of their lives

little girls
all grown up
will someday lose
their mamas

but mama
I'm not all grown up
so why
do I have to lose you?

She will  be
        a woman who can
         sit  me  down,
              shut me up
                and tell
         me things I don't
           already know
                     and
          make me laugh.

           I don't care
   what she looks like.
        She just needs
to be able to turn me on.
         She will be
            my baby,
         my headache,
            my love,
            my smile,
            my frown,
            my pain,

  It will  feel  so  good
       when she rubs
her soul up against mine.
       Familiar, safe,
        intoxicating,
           arousing,
            HOME.
                                              ­                              Jon York   2019

i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.

something shall touch us
and it shall touch deep
in the sensation of touch
emotions shall freely seep

being touched by love
a never forgotten tingle
wherein our hearts
feel a poignant jingle

Plato's quote still
bears relevance to-day
on the way love's receipt
does in us play

oh poets shall touch
the inner core with
a repository of the
wordsmith's lore

Some windows open
some windows shut
some windows slanting
some in the sunlight
some in the shade
standing out
against a white wall
A poem in a minute

i can taste claustrophobia
and it tastes like vanilla ice cream

white is not a color
but rather the lack there of

that is who i am
i am - everything but

the only temple i pray to
burns every summer

and my father made me into a snowflake
cold and melting

my mouth tastes like mothballs
a few times a day

maybe it means i'm dying
turning into an attic from the inside

i'm reminded
every time i say my name

i'm the illusion of a crayon box

Smoke from a blown out candle
Darkness, pink fuse, wick now
Extinguished in the emptiness
Watch it move across the room
Watch it move
Laying in the dark gazing at
The sky across the Milky Way
Connecting dots and destinies
Moving towards the ground
In this grand illusion
Hidden reverie that captures and
Takes away the day
Quietly

a warm cup of coffee
with cinnamon and honey

a little bitter, a little lovely

but hot as hell just the same