online since 1998
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graphic by Shawn Jozitis Poems
by Jessica Trefethen

Fleeting Innocence


While the last virgin waters roll down my calf,
coalescing into a sparkling pool of soul, I hear the
strident call of Heart and Laughter, beckoning me
to their joyous playground.  Standing, undecided,
on heartbreak hill, I am secretly torn between the
memory of what was and the impossibility of what
could be.  In that sacred place where no one may
touch you, that soft melancholy between asleep and
awake, I patiently await my answer, my redemption.
        The beauty of sunset passes, the moment's gone.
Sitting there, I hear the hum of the streetlights and I
smell the chimney smoke.  I'm not cold though.  I'm
just there.
        Then I hear that silky voice.  Hypnotized, I
follow him through the deep night.  Moving so fast
I almost reach him, he then disintegrates, melting into
the trees, the ground, the stars, the slight mouse two
trees over behind the bush with fireflies in it.  Equally
distributed, he engulfs me, forming a bubble.
        We fly, float, flutter, flip and fall ever so gently
back to the ground.  So tired, lucidity drains from
me as if I'm giving blood, flowing into the ground
I am.
        While I watch, rapt, within his loving arms, the
other descends so infinitely, his marvelous hold, so
comforting, so eternal, so complete.
        As the finite body forsakes the dedicated lover,
the moon completes its cycle.  And as it is replaced by
the arrogant sun, a slight mouse scurries gently over
my heart's grave.

For Michael

I see a figure bent in the shadows
huddled, weeping
His body shaking from the effort of his sobs
I watch his wings fold and unfold in impotent frustration
as sunlight filters through his dimming halo
All alone regardless of all the companions he may have.
None can bear his agony better than he
None will loose him from his burdensome worries
"In Heaven as it is in Earth"
No one to help him survive his own humanity
As abandoned as any motherless child
Distraught as any childless mother.
Alone, he waits to meet Destiny
She is his only guide, his only protector
None can harm him until She deems it the appropriate time
He cannot be released until She deems it the appropriate time
And time is on Her side.


Psychosis runs his hands through my hair
a poor parody of Venus' son
Winding down the road, hand in hand
No destination, no goal
All destiny, all fate
We sit in the grass, dreaming, nightmaring
He grabs my arm and we walk again
The path is gone, left behind, tired and finite
Still he drags me on
Over the rough course he alone knows
The dregs of my energy gone
My starved mind envisions the wide-open spaces
and home-sweet-home promised to me in every
car and conservation commercial I ever saw
I see Indians, Indians everywhere
smoking peyote and making love to rocks
They give them faces and give them thoughts
They teach them to fly and dance
What dribbled truths flow from them?
There is no half-naked Indian man to beckon me
I wander, guideless through their maze
sniffing for cheddar, seeing thousands of distorted images,
feeling thousands of eyes upon me
and not knowing which way to turn.

Twisted Ramblings

Digital Wishes
Colorized Dreams
Battery Acid
Coming loose at the seams
See-saw in the attic
Tambourine on the floor
Who's in my head?
Hell's at the door
Dogs chasing cars
Jockeys on the lawn
One wrong turn
Rover is gone
Purple and Red
Black and Green
Can't ever tell you
the Things that I've seen
Shadows of Soul
Bowels of Life
Daddy's little girl?
Beelzebub's Wife
Circles have corners
Rocks have dreams
Infinity is 2
Sun loses it's beams
Can't hold on anymore
Losing my grip
I'm gonna float
I'll just let it slip

The 20th Century Syndrome

Blah, Blah, Blah
Been there, seen it, done that
It's all been done before
Our lives are re-runs.
Our natural reserve of chaos, beauty and
originality has been drained.
Nothing's new anymore.
All the pages are yellowed and
the shelves containing our souls
have spider prints in a sheath of dust.

Where's our Revolution?
Sex, death, drugs, business, space, the sea,
science, magik, hygiene, industry, America, religion,
It's all been done before.
Everything's been named, labeled, studied,
sized, analyzed, supervised, televised, categorized,
theorized, maximized, minimized,computerized,

What's left for Generation X?
Do we really become the monsters they foresee?
Mr. Hyde-and-seek is our mascot
and Black is our future.

Jessica Trefethen is currently living and writing in northern Vermont.



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