Sample poems from if it stings...

​

 

 

autumn year

 

i remember when

being the writer of

rainy day words

was enough.

 

i remember when

fucking on a first date

felt like intimacy.

 

i remember when i believed

first thought, best thought.

when he’d say he’d call

and i believed him.

 

getting older sucks ass.

the price of wisdom

is taking off the blinders

and seeing the pot holes

in the road.

 

©jacw

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​

 

on being a poet

 

do you understand madness?

​

--yes, he said.

 

no, do you understand madness?

​

--yes, he said.

 

no!

do you understand madness!

​

--yes! he said.

 

NO,

no you don’t.

you don't and you can't.

​

she breathed in deep and long:

 

madness is being charged with

telling the story

of the whole

of humanity,

​

and only having

only one lifetime

​

in which

​

to tell it.

 

©jacw

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pleasing everyone

 

if you've lived your life

with honesty

and bravery,

you're bound

to make

 

enemies.

 

©jacw

​

​

​

 

passing the torch

 

i raised her right.

from the time she could see my face,

i taught her how to

speak-talk like a grounded tree.

their stares were like a million angry darts

looking for a board to impale,

she told me when she was two.

i was so proud.

 

i warned her—

nicotine is better than cocaine.

caffeine is better than meth.

healthy is better than skinny.

yeah,

i raised her fucking right.

now she tells me her skin hurts.

she tells me writing

is like pulling muscle from bone.

she tells me her heart

ain’t ever in the same place twice.

 

so now she’s panhandling down the street

from my corner.

i hold my paper plate

with frenzied words scratched inside

and she holds her own words out

for the masses to walk by.

 

i told her to not make my same mistakes,

but she didn’t listen, did she?

she’s just like me.

god help her.

​

she’s a poet,

like herself--not like me--

​

but a poet

 

just the same.

​

 

©jacw

 

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​

footsteps

 

why don’t i hear you coming?

 

--because i don’t have footsteps.

they took them away when they saw my breasts.

 

who are “they?”

 

--“they” are those who listen to my voice

with bemused smiles.

who repeat what i say with different words

and take credit.

men who contradict my opinions

with the words

“no, that’s not it,”

and then proceed to make the very same point

with their raspy, deep voices.

 

--“‘they” are those who let their gazes wander my body

when my face is turned away.

they are the “enlightened men”

who say they are feminists

but quash my voice

with the pat on my head.

that’s who “they” are.

 

why did you let them?

 

--i didn’t.

 

but

you did.

the footsteps were yours—

yours

to make loud and clear.

 

--no. you don’t understand what it’s like.

 

of course i do.

i have breasts, too—

and my footsteps can be heard for miles.

 

--but how?

 

i keep walking, forward, never wavering

until my footsteps are drumbeats

and every person ahead

hears me coming.

every person behind

undulates

to the rhythms of them—

but you, my sister,

you allowed them to stop your stride.

 

it’s why,

even to your own ears,

your footsteps

seem,

and feel,

silent.

​

--how do i get my footsteps back?

 

that’s what’s insidious, my friend.

your footsteps

were never lost.

you simply chose to believe ‘them’

when they told you

you had no feet

on which to stand, march,

or race—

 

your power coming from the

heart beneath your breasts,

propelling you toward your

infinite

potential.

​

​

©jacw

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calling

 

you have to take being a writer

deadly serious.

your readers invest their hearts,

souls,

minds and time in you.

what you write is your gift to them.

it should be utterly unselfish.

give them what they want and need

and you will be immortal.

cheat them out of what they’ve earned

and the betrayal they’ll feel will

haunt your footfalls

all of your days and most of your nights.

 

and they will never forgive.

​

​

jacw©