Poetry by Mark Jaynes

               ​ Justin Russell CC




Untitled


grandchildren in the backyard
laughing running squealing
kitchen radio playing oldies
she's got the big pot out
pouring in the good oil
her ragged wooden spoon happy again
conducting the big pot into action
senses coming alive with the rising fragrant steam
simmering, stirring up to transport
basting those memories back
he's with her again
holding her from behind
strong nuzzlng on ticklish neck
she adds the garlic and onions
he pulls her closer
in go the carrots and celery
she shifts her feet
stirring in the stock
smiling from within
the pot just below a boil
then opens the window to say
"you kids stick around, dinner's soon"
and drops in the meat
his favorite meal





Chrysalis

her back against the wall
knees drawn up
within the sanctum of used books
alone on saturday morning
in the young reader section
glasses, quiet clothes of a misfit
her captured face shining
her cradling hands sure
of this story she so needed to know




​
Untitled

somebody's child
born with problems
out of their control
somebody's child
followed their Mother
across the river
seeking safe haven
somebody's child
dreams of food
every sleepness night
their shcoolwork undone
somebody's child
is across town
around the corner
on a bench
laying on cardboard
wearing found clothes
worn as their thoughts
that no longer question
their invisibility
​
​

Mark Jaynes has no formal education, but has been into it on his own, alone, for about 30 years. He lives off grid in Alaska. Worked in the oil industry. Always been a reader. A taoist. Knows all about the I-Ching. Goes to Burning Man. Pretty much a Perimeter Man.

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