We walked the Topeka zoo
yesterday and looked at
all the animals being held
against their will.

The angry zookeeper
told us about the bear
that got its head stuck
in a peanut-butter jar.

“It’s not a laughing matter.”,
he said.

The children laughed anyway.

“This bear would’ve died,”,
he said. “if we wouldn’t have
come along and taken him out
of the wild, removing the
peanut-butter jar, and nursing
him back from starvation.”

The bear was asleep in a thin tree
above our heads.
He’d climbed up there to be closer
to the warm sun,
my youngest son advised.

I wondered if he hadn’t climbed
up into that tree to sleep farther
away from the din of his jailer’s
voice as he shouted to the herds of us
who’d paid our six bucks to stand in
the cold and listen to his angry
voice tell us about peanut-butter jars
removed from the heads of bears and
how that’s what it takes to save lives
around here.

No one asked the zookeeper
or the bear if either one
of them still liked peanut
butter eaten straight from
the jar.

No one asked if either one
of them ever missed their
mothers.

We just watched the bear
sleep in the crook of the
highest branch of that
thin, leafless tree.

His head lulled into the
crook of his elbow and his
*** dangled in the chilly
air.

I suppose he was dreaming
of escape.
Maybe he pondered, dreamily,
what that zookeeper tasted like.

Perhaps he dreamed of peanut-butter
eaten straight from the jar,
knowing his head wouldn’t get stuck
anymore.

But, I bet he was dreaming
of his mother.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

We are all moths
seeking the moon
but finding streetlights
instead.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

there are monsters
at the end of our
most scenic streets.

still, we must travel
them and see those monsters,
shining our light in their
eyes.

some of us may exsanguinate,
or be gruesomely crushed by
uncaring or misguided jaws.

yet, we must remain steadfast
in showing ourselves to be,
each one, a phoenix,
a thunderbird.

We must rise above such
simple and foolish a
construct as hatred.

We must show those monsters,
at the end of those streets,
in those dark corners,
that we do not fear them,
that we will overpower them,
rising above them,
meter by meter,
stanza by stanza.

We must be the embodiment
of what we do,
we must be poetry.

we must bring our
light into all
those dark places,
we must never, ever
relent.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Somewhere, for someone,
a pound of flesh is
always due.

There is no god
and there is no devil,
but that don’t mean that
there ain’t no goodness
nor evil in this world.

There’s monsters out there,
every day and in every way.

We’re the gods and the devils here
and most of the time we’re hungry
for that pound of flesh.

And, for some reason that I can’t
figure we’re always ready to see
some other poor, sorry *******
pay what he owes.

Yet, we, ourselves, hesitate
and falter, mumbling our thoughts
and prayers, clattering our rosary
beads, cracking our hymnals and our
knuckles.

or,

pointing crooked fingers and
placing blame when time is up
and our own wrenched demon
has come to collect.

*


-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

We often hang up
phones without saying
what the person
on the other end
wants to hear.

More interested in
coffee and sinkers
on our way out the door;
beating the rush hour
traffic into downtown,
late for work.

Choosing resolve over
conviction, no trump cards
in this particular deck.

Massachusetts Street,
Lawrence Kansas, 7pm.

There’s a man sitting quietly
across from where I am.

He is alternating between purring
like a cat and making **** noises
at passersby and otherwise muttering
to himself.

He is drinking an iced tea from the
café and chain smoking

I am smoking a cigarette myself.

Every moment or so, we make
eye contact and I can see different
galaxies in his eyes.

Knowing, doubtless that he vibrates
on a different frequency that most
everyone else.

(I try to love him anyway.)

There are only minimal variances
in the code,
but these microscopic differences between us,
they bear so much weight that the scales crack.

Our circles are too small.

Shh…

The Honeybears are here.




*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

What a shame it is
that we spend most
of our time these days
committed to standing
on unloving
ground.

Instead of loving
our neighbor as
ourselves,

we seek unfettered
validation,
no matter our
own candid transgressions.

Our minds are full of stolen
ideas,
like eggs from the nests of eagles.

We spend our nights measuring wolves.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

In the cool
early hours
of a Thursday
in September
I find my way
into Big Sky
for a couple
of doughnuts
and a cup.

Just next door
is the Goodwill
employment offices.

There they find
sheltered employment
for adults and youth
with developmental
challenges.

As I park,
hoisting myself
from the driver’s
seat;
I notice her
trying the locked door
to those offices.

Thinking nothing of it,
I continue into the coffee
shop and begin breakfast.

Soon, she is shadowing
the Big Sky entryway,
eyes as big as
hubcaps.

Dressed as modestly
as possible in her
bright green hoodie
and ankle-length denim
skirt, she stares at
us all.

Her eyes are wide with
nervousness and a searching,
a yearning for faces known
and familiar, safety.
Settling for the security
of the donut-shop’s doorway
and the sunbeam therein,
she hovers still.

Her eyes come to rest upon me.

Having been in similar
situations for what is
too-quickly becoming a
half-century, I recognize
what this girl’s thoughts
must’ve turned to.

“There’s someone like me.”
“He’s different, and thusly
the same. He’s safe here.
I will be as well.”

With her owl-eyes she looks
me up and down, focused on
my outward-turned right foot
and the crutches leaning on the
chair opposite mine.

I smile.

So does she.

I wink.

When this happens,
her face flushes to
the color of roses
and her large eyes
sparkle like emeralds.

The doorway continues
to serve as her haven from
the unfamiliar, but she’s
relaxed a little.

Full of pastry,
coffee, and the desire
to finish the task,
I make my way outside.

Rising from my seat,
gathering my crutches,
I step toward the young
lady seeking solace in
the sunbeams.
Leaning in,
I cannot help but notice
that she is quivering
with apprehension.

I say quietly:

“You have really pretty eyes.”

Her unease dissipates immediately.

Her spectacular emerald eyes relax
and she smiles with her whole self
and says:

“I know.”


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications