the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘worry’

Something’s in the water

(A meditation for Mother’s Day and Christmas)

“Something’s in the water.” Chuckles surround.
“I’m due. Get ‘em out with spicy Thai.”
Down in straps infants spit-up over shoulder and lapse
the recurring flow–before nine and after one,
suckling two, singled out, like the single ones so few
within the stained. Glass. Body–broken.
Created to create, duty to do, should we adopt, a different view?
Turn a cheek when asked if trying instead of
shoving our Brothers and Sisters, sighing:

A gleam in God’s eye, a moat in mine.
Doused at a shower: games and pastel flower
present from the eye, a tear, ducks out early dashing hope
upon the rocks by Babylonian stream, the placenta’s quite salty,
but ’tis sweeter than bare melancholy.

Christened: yet another granny or grandpa’s claim,
last week’s was not averse to holy, genocidal names–
ache and money enough can get triple the glow, the pound,
the flesh, the ounce add up every week, you know, weighing down,
C-cups runneth over to nursery wants ten more
fingers, ten more toes, to fight the battle
in the basement of babies booming below.

Impregnated with fertility in winter–in spring:
proud pistils sing standing up theirs in-carnations
on Sunday two of–May the un-mothered run away.
But no matter the year, we worship a child in the end:
bowing to our cherubs in bathrobes, tiny babes in bulletin,
sliding through choruses on the backs of asses to Bethlehem.

For God so loved the world that he sent an advent series
every year to remind the shepherdess, in her barren fields,
to treasure up these things and ponder them.


Tired of saying stomach

I am so tired of saying stomach,
I want to say diarrhea
not that my mouth is just another ass
to slosh feces from,
but so I can lower my cranial walls
and show the world my wrinkles
without worry.


Up There Someday

Moments like these
When I see need up to my knees
When I sadly say,
“Can’t wait be up there someday.”
Because I won’t have to worry about those down there
Because there’s nothing I could do anyway for those that fell.
Every chance that had to help was yesterday,
And my sins, forgiven, I hate to say.
regret about heaven


Worry Lane

Do you ever worry about me?
Surely, there’s some doubt, please.
It’s like not being missed
Because you know I’ll be fine.
Worry Lane, at least to me,
Seems to be one way.
Tell me when I’m wrong.
do people worry about me?


Every time I stop typing

Every time I stop typing you are there
Throwing me in a knapsack and carrying me
Down the street of my past memory
Crying. Couldn’t be more sadistic or kinder.
Pajamas, playgrounds, tuxes at a party,
Jess, Heaz, Ross, Jaz, Beck and Mir,
I’ve constructed a trance that reminds
Me of what was and still is in all its glory
And cancels my omnipresent burden and worry
That production is the only good use of time.
Recalling you and me: our one, now separate, story:
Composed music of the soul that intricately rhymes.



© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.