The Poetry of Jeffrey L. H. Naylor

no!linger, here? no, not here, move on. impulse, motivation, survival,
contemplation. it is too hot. I take off my shirt for just a second.
they should have kept their flack jackets on…foolish people…
living on the Moon. I can see it now, Grand Opening of the Universal
trash can.Grand opening on the moon? of the moon? just how polar-cold
is it in the dark of night? without provocation, as it has done for
billions of years, the alien water transmogrifies, unveils the fear.
the underlining, immortal fear. that no one else sees, looking beyond
the truth, to grasp a fantasy world. a world that exists only within
the truth of make-believe. in such a world, only immortals can
contain
the fear and see the truth. yet, in this hot and cold place
we are all mortal. then who shall see the truth?
who will pull back the veil to eyes that see dreams only perceived?
there is no grand master of ceremonies, who unveils a false truth.
so we linger here, we linger here, and we will die here.
the test is too arduous, the cause too subjective a truth to claim.
we wait for a grand, dangerous unveiling of a far, more distant past.
in such a world, why linger here? no, not here, move on. for is it
impulse, motivation, survival, incomprehensible to linger here? yes!

Looking to buy Likely Lapley’s old hound,
Yankee Doodle Dandy went to Strudel Town.
“Not a hound, a mangy dog,” was all he found.
The insult spread everywhere and all around.
Y.D. Dandy caused more than one chicken noodle frown.
So he stole the mutt and sold him for a pound!
Well for such a bargain, the folks at Elder’s Town,
Looking to find a hapless, helpless hound,
Took one gander and said they all, “a mascot we’ve found.”
The new flew with sweet and swift wings to all around.
The folks at Elder’s Town bid not one, but two pounds.
There’s a moral to this story, some folks have no clue.
I’ve tried to tell ’em, right down to my blues.
So I’ll leave it to the folks of every Town,
Hoping somebody might discern the moral profound.

To have hope and hope not,

Sounds profound. As light

Or dark, life or death.

One or the other.

Never both.

No never.

Never.

inevitably, the ironies of life so dear
seldom find us joyfully willing
to understand the circumstances fulfilling
by which they suddenly appear.

—Walking Toward Death

Winds blown, pock paths worn
Days cloned, mock nights torn
Time’s tone, fail hearts forlorn
Minds grown, hail brokenness born
Souls groan, hear reciprocity’s scorn
Hatred sown, fear Joshua’s Jericho horn
Hope’s hone, rich the whetting edge to mourn
Love’s Koan, Lich Gates with rubied jewels adorn

last night I walked the streets of Old Bangkok
and there did find in the crimson dark
a porcelain doll opaquely dressed
and painted in promises surreal.
she vowed to love me long-time,
when I took her to my embrace.
but when the morning dawn did come,
the white of light revealed to me
that my doll was gone to whet
the taste of other lonely souls,
of men who measure love in long-time.
my heart bruised and ego tossed,
again i wander the streets of Old Bangkok
and there I hope to find blossoming
in the cherry light a porcelain doll
painted wet in translucent promises surreal
to love me long-time. at least,
her heart does pledge, until the daylight breaks
and turns me out once more
to walk the streets of Old Bangkok.

do not let
the experiences
of your life
impose upon you
explanatory restrictions.
whether good or bad,
you know as well as I
Experience
is the process of re-creation,
which is life’s necessity
in keeping cadence
with its deconstruction

It is Sunday, and the sky is blue because I am blue,
Through the screen an unfamiliar wind softly blew.
And I cannot think of any other reason for it to be so
Than that! And in my blue, that’s the way it goes.
The canal is low today, and at the bottom I can see
Grey sludge that makes the afternoon air hang free.

On the porch, Mr. Egret begs me gently for a snack.
To the beggar’s request, bird-witted I respond
Only to find motion in my sudden generosity to bond,
Which unexpectedly pushes me up and out, losing my disparity.

I found a spot to ponder my blue mixed with avarian charity.
Today I worshipped in a most unfamiliar place of nature’s law.
Surprised to find joy in blue filled my doubt with awe.
Somehow before the day was done, afore the night did fall,
I thanked Mr. Egret for his call,
Which helped me take the blue of Sunday’s gift to me
And cast it out upon the sea!

the fan is on…
spinning so slowly
the altering shadows
swim through the air,
circling the moon painted walls,
brushing against fluttering curtains.
another shadow joins them,
gliding quietly towards the bed.
soft footsteps engrave
the thick, quiet carpet,
leaving muted evidence.
within the silent world of sleep
life swirls in motion creating
sounds of wandering dreams,
echoes of diminishing footsteps,
skipped beats of breaking hearts.
the gasp of a last breath encompasses all.
the fan is off…

Sweet as summer’s honey is my lover’s taste.
And from her seasoned veins, I fill
Against the force of my whirling will.
I fear me without her. Life drifts upon waste.
Yet, here in the equivocal, eternal eternity
I scream from the Silence of my solemnity.
Beats once, beats twice, beats thrice…
Value in jeweled sublimity is this love’s price.