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 Mar 2014 Emma Jacobson
E
Tell me what keeps you up at night
and I might just tell you
What keeps me sleeping through the day
out of the arm of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes ***
writes songs and stories
and is much kinder than the last,
much much kinder,
and the *** is just as good or better.
it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,
it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't
work
as all love
finally
doesn't work ...
it is much more pleasant to make love
along the shore in Del Mar
in room 42, and afterwards
sitting up in bed
drinking good wine, talking and touching
smoking
listening to the waves ...

I have died too many times
believing and waiting, waiting
in a room
staring at a cracked ceiling
wating for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound ...
going wild inside
while she danced with strangers in nightclubs ...
out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another
it's not pleasant to die on the cross,
it is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in
the dark.
I lie in bed, a lazy girl
dreamy smiled and and sleepy eyed,
your latest sonnet on my pillow –
my latest heartbeat, amplified.
Roses sing softly through whispering petals,
Gently stroking upon each others' own.
Similar is the sound, when all else rests,
Of sweet breath escaping lips royally throned.
I wish she would take me home.

Sunset, sunrise,
Chasing the moon girl, no surprise.
How long i have longed to catch her eyes,
Baby blue by nature, baby blue in mine.
Gold embroidered galaxies tells the false man lies.

Heart beats fast,
Bass drops low.
Twisting, turning, head spinning, falling.
How did we get here? Where do we go?
Covalently bonded, nowhere is everything now.
technology steals time from us,
the attention that we lack.
suppose nature had a mother and a father who want her back?
what words can one play when there is no other way,
time is irrelevant, needless to say.
hourglasses drip heavy sand
as the end draws near of their demands that you've failed to keep.
lose sleep. wake up, fret and go about the day
but in a mindset that is not normal, not okay.
repeat.
if nature did indeed have a mother, she must be majestic.
her father one so powerful he could juggle the planets between his fingers,
drape the milky way across his shoulders,
don Orion's belt and bow, but quickly so,
drink from the big dipper, stir from the little.
parents aside, for they've hastily hidden,
leaving mother nature all alone to birth the selfish and unforgiven.
that mankind race, so out of place,
toxic waste killing their creator, such disgrace.
everyday accumulation seems too hot to handle,
but mother nature must never die down like a slowly flickering candle.
all it takes is hope upon action,
then reaction to reaction to reaction
until the only repetition is nothing at all,
a point never to be reached for we're all fated to fall.
twist your fate, rewrite your ending,
fall down hard, then stand up smiling.
pick up the pieces where you once left off
and scoff at the fallacies you once believed,
for the future holds everything--and nothing,
if you please.
 Apr 2011 Emma Jacobson
Number 8
My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.

Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
The folks are as good
as the people
” he’d declare.

But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
   rarely
            as good
                         as the people
     the pitcher as the batter
     the husband as the wife
     the striker as the goalie
     the salesman as the prospect
     the child as the parent
     the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.

Then you
know:
It’s all over
        but the crying.


Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
it’s over?
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
        How victorious is victory?
        Who is defeated in defeat?
        What is the final score?
        Who won again?

The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
                                                    beginnings,
                                                                ­          and
                                 rebeginnings
                of life
shared and                                                              ­                             solitary.

So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores

so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?

        18.i.11
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