Archive for the ‘Jack Henry’ Category

Two Poems by Jack Henry

in a cabin in the woods during winter

i don’t like kissing,
            she tells me
it’s too real, to intimate
            she says
but i like everything else 

on the lips,
            she adds
that’s what i meant 

outside it’s been raining
rain so hard you can’t
see past the rail of the
front porch 

an orange tabby sits
in the window
watching for movement
but only the rain
and the rivers of water it brings

i mean i want to kiss you,
            she says
just not on the lips
            she smiles
does that make sense? 

the sky outside grows thick
and dark, thunder rumbles,
lightning cracks 

the power goes out
only the glow of a fire
to light the room 

do you believe in Jesus?
            she asks, unsnapping my pants
religion turns me on
            she kisses me, but not on the lips
it’s so intense
            she says 

the cat jumps from the window
when lightning cracks close
thunder rumbles directly overhead


growing old and that’s okay


my left ear finally gave up
closed down
i can no longer hear
on the left side 

and that’s okay 

pain is gone
ringing stopped
half of the words of
crybabies, complainers, naysayers,
despots, totalitarian presidents
no longer register 

and that’s okay 

some days i wish
i couldn’t hear anything
at all,
but there’s too much
to miss
too many sounds
of beauty and joy
and raw guttural pleasure 

i’d rather have
half of one thing
than 100% of everything 

and that’s okay



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