Jack Black's Poetry Corner

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[The room wasn’t lit at all, because there were throngs of hands holding white candles that shined so brightly that the whole room may as well have not had walls… I passed through hordes of people, many I knew, who for the first time, acknowledged my existence on a footing that was equal with the rest of them…

… and when I approached the altar, I was enveloped in big white hands…

… and I was perfect in every sense for about fifteen minutes of my life.

I sang, and loudly.

This is what you do to me.] – (author’s name withheld)


I will.
I’ll wait.

I meant what I said. I’ll wait. Here, today, in the halogen backwash of this morning’s unspoken aftermath, I will, I’ll wait, so bring on, my love, the cold, still air of your potential debris and I shall gather and keep each silent vow like Autumn’s wind-devils cradle the scattering leaves.

I meant what I said. I’ll wait. There, tomorrow, at the stillest of points between past and bright future, I will, I’ll wait, as the notion of us crests like an ambient wave and then circles the stars with the lightest of breath until Heaven’s fine hairs shiver up on its neck.

I meant what I said, I’ll wait. Wherever, forever, until time’s mechanisms cease their incessant tick, I will. I’ll wait, and if I do this all right, and I plan it all well, you shall remember that room with the fading view and the hundreds of people whom you barely knew, bright and alive in that tempest of flame, and then forget them all to the music I make.

I will.
I'll wait

New England, it is.
One night and a wish.
My hands in your hair.
Your hands on my hips.
The friction of denim.
Cotton sparking in black.
The thrill of the heat.
The arch of my back.
A weakening of knees.
A shiver of skin.
Just open your life.
I want to walk in.

Dearest man of my heart;

I know that words from me are as insubstantial as smoke.

I know that my promises are one shade of purple short of black for I’ve bent and broken far too many.

I know that my need for you is an iridescent vibration of truth.

I know that I feel you, crsytalline, at my very core.

I know that weeks might go by without word from you but when that silence breaks it’s like the fertile smell of soil beneath a chrome-yellow sun.

I know that I taste that welcome sound of you like a flavor of air; hot, like sun-scorched blacktop.

I know that I long to be saturated in you; taken into the darkest of your waters until day sours towards bitter twilight.

I know that one day we shall dance beneath cotton sheets, graceful as starlight at the edge of night, for we, you and I, are meant to be.

I know that I love you.

Now tell me, love, what do you know?

Weathered rocks, asleep and dreamy,
hard as iron, gritty gray.



Basted sky, with braids of yellow,
breathe a breath of brand new day.



I stand in light, no longer warming,
minutes burning, time aflame.



My heart, it thunders like a herd;
you’ve left and I am not the same.

Day turns to dark ashes
as feathery shadows
unwind quickly;
the spring of night’s watch.

Elliptical slivers
of cool moon-filtered light
pierce my window
then ripples in veils.

I pray for the sunlight
and the wind-polished sky,
dappled whispers
my cat tries to catch.

Red trumpet vines flourish
in soft stillness pooled deep
as the star salted sky
gently sails.

Put out the sun,
draw down the shades,
raise the dull, cloudy sky,
get me out of this place
to where wild grass fades
and winter snow flies
as wind stokes smoking ruins
until ash burns the eyes
and there I shall die,
‘neath a sky frigid blue
for there’s no point to living;
no point to me without you.

Pale blue-denim sky
like a penitent’s shroud,
winterwater cool
moonlight does float,
winddriven shadows
shift fast through the pines,
milky light of the dawn
starts to gloat.

Shadows spread
like stains of ink
and alone’s
but a teardrop away.
The side of your bed
lies as empty as I
and the sun’s been
put out.
No more days
fill my world,
it’s now
thundercloud black,
ghastly gray, void
yet full of
pain’s phantoms.
Cold wind sighs
through the pines,
makes an aisle
of leaves.
This, the day
you and I just
unhappened.

Long after summer
has run away,
October moon
creeps with stealth
through the clouds,
until a feverish beat
snatches sleep
from night’s hands
and a chorus of need
screams too loud.
He pauses a moment –
for Hunter’s Moon
is quite kind –
and he peers
to the earth
to reflect,
but once silence returns,
and need’s desire
has burned,
he and stars race again,
neck and neck.

In the sunwarmed, wheat stillness
a once tended garden does die;
sweet roses dim,
fading,
kissed a silent goodbye
as a new dawn rears slowly,
dressed in fuchsia and gold
and, like a cloak lined with lead,
thus a story is told.
Heavy words scold chilled air,
litter ghostly brown leaves,
and beneath this spectrum of color,
love’s heart rises up,
starts to grieve.

Sun breaks through the clouds,
creates long, spoking rays,
colors bare skin iced honey,
while it heats up sweet hay;
your lips find my pulse,
kiss its soft, lightening sprint,
and I wonder no more of love
for I now know that I’m in it.

Pendulum shift of a stiff, Autumn sky.
Ill-tempered squall of the wind passing by.
Thicket of ginger, cricket of green.
She stands in love’s field and she waits to be seen.