Jack Scott writes

Frozen Funds

You stop payment on good check, 
(When money’s short 
there is no joint account.) 
charge bad faith, 
bending my intention 
back upon itself, 
bankrupting my emotions, 
withdrawing all you own 
from your rubber bank. 

Jack Scott writes

Purpose?

Sand runs slowly 
- all sand has run before -
down from high to low, 
from summit to the present. 
A smaller hourglass 
measures time, 
but also runs, 
just runs.
 
Hourglass -- Anatoly Baratynsky

Jack Scott writes

In Touch with Roots

Bare earth is scarce. 
Whatever isn't paved 
is woven through with roots 
as dense as asphalt 
or composted with a toxic filth 
repelling any nature but its own.

White elephant graveyard, 
detritus of a dying city’s past 
is home to rats and Yuppies 
on this block anyway.

As leaves turn brown and I grow gray 
within this rented space 
my leaves are finally in touch with roots



Zenobia -- Colleen Corradi Brannigan

Jack Scott writes

 Two Shadows

I do not doubt you; 
I am doubting me. 
Waiting is heavy lifting. 
Unrelieved pain is pain, 
clenching fingers against themselves
(I knead. . . I need) 
metal fatigue of bony springs.

The landscape is Dali: 
one where two should be, 
but with two shadows.
There are too many pricks 
and 
not nearly enough balloons

Invisible Sleeping Woman, Horse, Lion -- Salvador Dalí

Jack Scott writes

Conspiracy of Flowers

Flowers flourish 
in field and greenhouse, 
in my intention 
to pick and give 
some of them to you.

Lest I wilt them with my fervor, 
or they diminish in my hand 
I hurry them to you 
hoping that they linger 
in your affection 
attaching some of it to me. 


An Interior Scene with a Cavalier Offering a FLower to a Lady, WHile Making an Obscene Gesture (After Jacob Duck) -- Pieter Jansz. Quast

Jack Scott writes

Color Drain

The color drain last night 
bled the flavor from my dreams, 
reduced that universe 
to shades of white and black, 
added weight, then took it back.

Wandering in the blindness 
of my loss of rainbow 
as an orphaned next of kin, 
I found the world an X-rayed place, 
fleshless, without beauty 
where beauty should have been.

Dawn arose without a spectrum, 
the light came up without it, 
and everything was gray. 
Looking for a rose or apple, 
I found only blackboard 
with its chalky dust.

My dreams are missing. 
Whose am I having? 
I wish they’d tell me 
what they want from me 
for the ransom 
of my own kaleidoscope.

 Untitled (New York City) -- Cy Twombly

Jack Scott writes

Spring 

Winter blows no more. 
Spring tiptoes in like plovers 
stitching sparkling, lacy hem 
to rich egg-laden sand. 
The tide is coming in. 
Spring brews wild blossom teas 
as trees drop hankies on the breeze.

Grey Plover at the Water's Edge -- Archibald Thorburn

Jack Scott writes

The Dragon Needs Lancing

A loneliness persists, 
stubborn and deep 
like a Dragon 
to be lanced, 
feeds upon momentum, 
until at the end of that, 
paucity of choice, 
blank willingness 
to continue 
remain 
after hope of joy 
is gone.

Jack Scott writes

Handshakes of the Clock

It is not this night or day. 
It is nights and days,
their number and duration.

It is their weight 
and how far they can be carried 
by those I meet and me.

I wonder at each first greeting 
how many days and nights 
we have for each other 
in each handshake of the clock.

Clocks III -- Ahmed Morsi

Jack Scott writes

Not Enough Monkeys

Given room enough and time, 
monkeys enough and typewriters, 
my work can be woven without me. 
There is not time enough, 
the room’s too small. 
It falls upon me, 
whenever time 
whatever room, 
I must do it myself 
or what use will I be?

Monkey on Typewriter --  Amanda Cassingham-Bardwell

Jack Scott writes

An Amber Husk

The egg was laid inside the fern, 
a fecund nest, unseen, forgotten 
except by what was in the egg 
incubating 
beneath the distant, 
other mother sun.

A quirk -
too dry, too hot, 
too something, 
too something not, 
too long becoming, 
yolk parched to ivory, 
shriveled into wizened nut, 
albumin to cellophane, 
its shell an amber husk.
   
Egg became a vacancy, 
its tenant gone 
and none to come.

It happens, a statistic. 
There are many ferns 
(They prosper.) 
and many eggs, 
the same; 
this is but one. 
This is death, 
but not extinction. 
There will be more 
to come.

Jack Scott writes

The Restless Model

My resting tree 
pressed like flower 
flat upon my window glass 
would not stay still last night, 
but wildly flailed and leapt about, 
thrashing all my hopes from sleep. 
Leaves and limbs danced madly; 
stronger gusts attacked the trunk 
in startling ways. 

At gray dawn 
gray tree still writhed upon a same-gray sky 
as something I should capture -
I've drawn the tree before -
charcoal on rough paper, 
but I'm not good at drawing wind.
Dance of the Wind and Storm -- Thomas Blackshear

Jack Scott writes

Easy Come, Easy Go

I have my choice at last: 
either forest or the sea. 
I can be king of either, 
but want them both  
and cannot choose. 
Locked out in indecision 
I am the emperor of neither.

 From the Forest to the Sea -- Emily Carr

Jack Scott writes

Local Knowledge Only

The unknown surrounds 
in a limitless sea of time: 
past, present, future 
inner, outer 
and some kind of up and down.

Lacking charts, 
whether lost or not, 
when we think faith is steering, 
we are drifting,  drifting. 
A sense of direction, 
even in error, 
feels better than none. 
Lacking purpose, trust will serve, 
though short of compass, 
but enough to get from here to there, 
a choice to make the best of it, 
even though it might be wrong. 
Trust is hard to teach oneself, 
too slippery to learn from others. 
We’ve been bought too cheaply.

Some waters are charted 
“Local Knowledge Only,” 
known through trial and error, 
handed down as lore. 
Pay attention; this is gospel.

For the broader waters 
you need to simply know 
that the earth’s not flat 
and take the rest on faith 
if charts are lacking.

Eternal Sea of Time and Space -- Sabina Woźnica
 

Jack Scott writes

Cocoons Should Have Zippers

Cocoons should have zippers 
and escape claws 
against a change of mind, 
cold feet of indecision.

Claustrophobia pushes, 
agoraphobia pushes back. 
Like television, 
teleportation is unsafe 
when the remote’s in other hands.

Birth of any kind’s not easy 
on the body or the mind. 
Reluctance fells 
the wishy washy kind.

Should escape seem far too risky 
just remember 
death’s a one way ticket 
so be sure you really know 
what is better, what is best 
and leave the rest behind.

-- Moussin Irjan

Jack Scott writes

Regimen

The outer inner city sleeps, 
then dozes post-alarm, 
finally gets up 
and walks itself, a dog, 
leash tight and short 
behind the panting insolence 
of one who dares to jog
Red, White and Blue Jog --  Linda Apple
 

Jack Scott writes

Adopting a Puppy

When I think of love 
death must come to mind, 
for all love dies.

Love is like the flu. 
We suffer all its symptoms 
until it goes away 
or nearly kills us 
while we wish that we were dead.

I’d not want to face my death, 
never having suffered love. 
I’ll not need to mourn 
if I have loved completely 
and been loved enough.



Man Flu -- Michael Abrams

Jack Scott writes

Archeology

Villages do not last, 
are built upon villages 
that did not last.


Whatever we were 
we almost are 
and this is close enough, 
whatever we expected. 
Neither of us is who
the other thought we were.

I care for you a garden a year, a flower a day. 
I greet you, stranger, 
friend, 
bouquet in hand.

Gli archeologi (The Archaeologists) -- Giorgio de Chirico

Jack Scott writes

Outfumbled

The dust in the hallway grows, 
a crop of time 
passed by 
without a mop. 
Then, long overdue, 
someone mops 
just before 
someone else 
intends to.

Mopping -- Vineeth Menon

Jack Scott writes

Her

I was thinking about her, 
how, if she were older 
(not I, younger), 
how if we met then 
we would stay met, 
more, rather than less, likely.

She is the fitting other half of me. 
She doesn’t know it 
and by the time she does 
I will not be here.

I think, 
looking on the half that is her, 
making the most of the half 
that is me 
is the best I can do.

I almost beg: be thirty now! 
But no, be now, 
now. 
Be thirty later 
whoever you will be.
 
 Cubist Man/Woman with Ladder -- Ari Roussimoff