A collection of poetry from Josh Preston
In the warmth of the sun
I am thankful,
but still…
between the cactus flowers
and the radiant sunsets
is coarse sand,
tumbleweed,
snake venom.
Off in the distance
there might be an oasis
cool water to bathe in
or maybe –
my thirst casts a mirage.
I ponder reality
with lips,
endlessly parched.
When I am a certain flavor of lonely
I stop falling in love with women who
simply walk past me and smile.
I instead,
turn to poets.
Today, under the brisk overcast
of a September Sunday morning
I drink coffee with Mary.
I lay my head in her lap
she plays with my hair
she makes me believe in God
she makes me notice miracles:
mundane, ordinary – miracles.
For the length of an iced coffee
she is the only one in my world
and that world has never been –
so entirely perfect.
Turn and face the sun my friend
the crisp fall hues will wilt and fade –
to hide, to heal, then grow again
my endless faith
where it’s always been.
Listen to the song bird’s ode
there is a wisdom in its truth –
to pass, to feel, so gently known
a thousand things
yet you’re never alone.
So give in to this gold still here
note the honey in its passing –
to say, to deal, in no despair
for colors change
yet never there:
no not this.
not you.
(we’re golden)
One day I will have a son.
He will inherit all my tomes of poetry.
Every book of Billy Collins,
Charles Bukowski,
the complete collection of Emily Dickinson,
and Sylvia Plath,
along with three copies
of ‘Leaves of Grass’
which I will read to him at night.
I will make sure our walls
are adorned with paintings
and the reverberation of music.
I will show him how to play
guitar and piano
and old records.
He however,
will be a football star
major in business
use my books as coasters
and be nothing like me.
And I,
will never be more proud of anyone,
for anything.
ever.
On an unremarkable day
a fourth grader swung his feet
forward and back
like a pendulum
(If pendulums could wear light-up Sketchers)
The world around him:
a game of Uno playing skip cards,
a Tamagotchi slowly starving in the pocket,
a field day running too slow for ribbons,
Yet to that fourth grader
that swing set stood like a castle
and he ruled as king
or maybe a jester, either way …
The friend on the other swing
laughed with him
giggling together
and planting little seeds
which, over a decade later
would grow into truly beautiful
precious
daylilies.
Among fields and skies and parkways
I trace my dreams into dirt
onto walls
across my forehead.
I swallow pens
and chew paper
screaming at sunsets
petting lonely fires.
I squeeze my work until
it hardens to coal
seething for spark
lusting for ember.
Yet the clouds are heavy
with rain and thunder
so this wick is made wet
to hide from the flames.
But how fortunate,
among all this chaos
and turbulence
and fury
I was baptized:
by 100 famous poets,
moving my hair
kissing my forehead
by 100,000 nameless writers
straightening my tie
dusting off my shoulders.
Only for them.
JUST for them.
I will go on with this.
what’s on your TV,
what your friends tell you,
Spam (the mail and meat variety),
how you felt yesterday,
Mark Zuckerberg’s “human” features
my words,
your words,
Shakespeare’s words,
the words on your phone,
Oh! and birds (probably)
Those dreams you fantasize about,
the way your lover feels about you,
your perception –
of other’s perceptions of you
There are a lot of things
that aren’t real
its all salt water
mud in a syrup bottle.
get it out of you.
Do what you have to
stick a finger down your throat
retch if you have to
Get. It. Out.
Bukowski had his bar stool
the last seat at the end,
Shakespeare had his room
in the back of the theatre,
Thoreau had his cozy pond estate
among rural Boston trees,
this egregious little amateur has his table
in the corner of a book store.
It has everything I could ever need:
bitter and sweet coffee,
the company of every great soul
to ever slow dance with a pen,
the graceful movements of strangers
with endless mysteries I’ll never know,
some woman in a red sweater
that I can fall in love with
while she flips through used poetry.
This is my castle,
my muse,
my blank canvas.
If I could instantly travel
through any breath of time,
any scene of space,
anywhere in the whole of existence:
I’d go
maybe half a foot to the left
for just a little more leg room.
This morning,
I got rain on the spine of her book
part of me thinks she’d like that
she’d find it fitting
it’d match the rainfall of her world
the storm of her soul
so deeply felt,
so beautifully expressed.
I looked up what she looked like
an old photo with these full pursed lips
like she could barely contain the words
locked behind her teeth –
she looked thoughtful
like her mind had the same pauses,
the same punctuation as her writing.
I wondered if she felt like me
frustrated her words only decorated
the fragility of her own papers –
her whole life only five published works
out of her 1775 masterpieces
her 1775 genuine expressions of humanity.
This morning,
I wrote her a love note
folded into a square
and watched the rain in the street,
carry it into the sewer.
He gently places the flowers on her step
heavy from the weight
of all that young bachelor’s heart beats
all his feelings,
all his intentions,
his cherished observations.
I watch from my car
swallowing thick gulps of air
tasting the tension in his blood.
He rings her bell
runs off grinning
like a thief pocketing diamonds.
She opens the door
smiles at the sight
brings the flowers to her chest
breathes in her hopes deeply
smiling in the sea of its aroma.
Yet that bachelor never saw the smile he caused
only I did,
watching from my car.
Where is that bachelor now?
I imagine him in open pasture
somewhere warm
picking more flowers.
Of Poems and Places 