Other Poems by:

Jack G. Bowman

Holding Fast

She has been gone 8 months
he watches as dust lines
her picture
hears her voice on the answer phone
speaks to it everytime
doesn?t wait for a response 

each face that smiles back at him
makes him want...
yet, she is there
waiting to sob in his ear
hold him tight
beg him not to leave
then she vanishes
from whence she came

she feels betrayal
so, he holds on
a pallbearer 
lost in the cemetery.


That Poor Man

He wades through the crowd
a chain firmly wrapped around his neck, shoulders
pulls him down
he holds one end 
the other drags the floor

the crowd watches him
hears the scrape of metal
across wood, linoleum, carpet
give him room
a wide berth

he looks at them
sees the empathy in their eyes,
but they do not help him
cannot carry the chain
or pull it from his shoulders

they are afraid
they will be given a similar curse
so they do not touch
but sink back into the walls
until he passes
until he is gone.


New Level Virus

The magic mirror melts into mercury around his fingers
as they go in
molecules bond to his skin
intruders invade his nervous system
he is infected

as he plods his way through Monday
he notices strange thoughts emerge, pass by,
billboards for his mind?s eye
he slowly gets up
shakily, makes his way toward the bathroom

when he arrives home
his pets are afraid to greet him
something different
behind their eyes

he awakens
moves to the bath
feels better
jumps as he sees 
some stranger?s face in the mirror

he slowly moves back, looks, 
even his eye color has changed
as images pass behind his eyes
words inside whisper to him
a new program has come on line
they expect great things
from this new incarnation
the old man?s time is up
he is obsolete.
Dionysus Hotel 4th Floor

Long dark red carpeted hallway
large dark wood doors
Victorian frames
alternate both sides
in between
metallic gold wallpaper made red by the light

a man moves forward
checks each handle
wonders which will open for him
slows his pace as he remembers 
previous trials, scars of past experience

far ahead on the left he hears laughter, party sounds
music undulates, this door opens easily...
in some modern fertility rite,
lithe female bodies glide across the room
they notice him, one woman smiles
behind her candles burn,
smell of sex, incense, opium

he is in the room before he can decide, looks startled
the revelers mock his uneasy stance, chuckle,
wait to see what he will do
he has been here before
or several just the same

a satyr moves to him, grabs his hand
whispers, ?you never know what will happen.?
his eyes are twisted
the man nods, takes back his hand slowly
returns to the hall
turns left, closes the door behind him
moves on up the passageway

wants another
Midnight Shift

Noir film
black and white television world
a man walks a path of dirt, rocks
a deer trail, more used by humans
than wild life
it winds back and returns,
the stones, mostly white, the trees darker
undergrowth is grey in the moonlight

he is warm, unafraid
yet, from a place deep inside him 
there is a gnawing
something is not right
he moves on through
crunches leaves, scatters dust

as he comes close to a clearing
the sensation begins to burn, itch
electricity and spider webs

someone lies on the grass, looks up
far away into the sky, does not blink
the face
is his own
the person he was

he is now
someone else.

Dealing with the Demons

In a short dream, 
he visits with friends 
then, guitar in hand,
runs off to work on music

part way down the street 
he looks ahead
from this angle, he can see the ocean
some twenty miles distant

a wide blue strip on the horizon
then something draws his attention
the shape of a flower, then mushroom,
it is large, pushes the water in all directions
the blast is coming
air sucked toward it before being blown back
he runs, fingers still wrap the handle 
of his guitar case, it swings and bangs 
as he returns home to be with loved ones
when it hits

he can barely breathe
spills out the story

then he is awake
it is dark, four o eight am
there is no blast
his friends are not here
the cat gives him a knowing look 
goes back to sleep.

A Note on Field Perception

There is a field that
pushes out from consciousness
still to be found and measured
it is easily felt
from across the room,
the next car over in traffic
inside the house, as a stranger passes

it is the essence of the person who 
is conscious
a mixture of good and evil thought,
past deeds, forbidden wants

when we pass in the street 
or talk on the phone
an expectation, an image creates
based on appearance
then there is the field
which signals to the other, the nature
of true intent
for others to perceive.

all poems by Jack G. Bowman

Love, Peace and Knowledge
Jack G Bowman MA

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