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I wrote in my journal:
“This farmer’s nocturnal.
I don't deal in seeds,
fertilizer, or kernels.
I wake when the sun
decides the day is done.
Then I harvest my crop
with a blade and a gun.”
I wrote in italics:
“It’s warm and metallic.
The urge isn’t primal,
or carnal, or phallic.
Do I like the taste?
Or is the feeling based
in the fact that red wine
just goes straight to my waist?”
I wrote in Cambria:
“Onomatopoeias
like CRASH, CRUNCH, and CRACK
were such lovely ideas.
But you wouldn’t HUSH,
and so I had to RUSH.
With one wearisome BANG
you GAGGED, GARGLED, and GUSHED.”
I wrote in all bold:
“As I watched you grow cold
I leapt out of my skin,
and I saw it unfold.
Right above where you were
in a shadowy blur
Death drove you away
like a handsome chauffeur.”
I wrote in fine print:
“There was a tiny hint
of remorse when your eyes
lost their shimmering glint.
But I soon felt okay
when I thought of the day
that I looked in those eyes,
and then you looked away.”
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J. Davies is an elementary school teacher, so he doesn't publish under his legal name. He spends fall,
winter, and spring wearing ties, scoring homework, and writing notes for disgruntled parents. He spends summer wearing slippers, scoring punk records, and writing poetry for himself.
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