Flying Island

Buffalo Nickels and Steel Guitar Music by Michael Brockley for Jay Zimmerman Last night I counted a buffalo nickel among the change left in my Levi’s. All summer, butterflies have fluttered from the shadows of the silver maples that have overgrown my fencerow. When was the last time you held a nickel? What was the last color of butterfly to land on your arm? I try to remember your poem about coming of age in Miami, but all I recall is you cruising in your Firebird along the strip of motels where Yankee teenagers on spring break gathered to drink local beers named for hurricanes. In the evening, a jazz combo lost themselves in “Kind of Blue.” The last time we talked we sat in a college bar surrounded by board games and used books. We read B. H. Fairchild’s poem about a young Mickey Mantle walloping a fastball from the green hell of steel guitar music off a water tower in Quapaw. “There’s more to it than that. It’s about men playing for redemption,” you said. The depth you...

Poetic Seductress by Jay S Zimmerman A seductress        dressed in poetry her sheer exquisite words flow          over her shoulders                      cling to her body,               leave only a cleavage of metaphors 
      Similes danced like ballerinas              in the curls of her hair 
 Her lips pouted passionate penetrating alliterations                and her thighs provocatively pressed           against her dress                  ...

I am an eyelash in the wind by Jay S Zimmerman I am an eyelash in the wind Brushed from your face Teardrops in silence Homeless and yearning Brushed from your face Crying in an empty heart Homeless and yearning Longing for loving Crying in an empty heart Teardrops in silence lover’s lonesome wishes I am an eyelash in the wind Bio:   Jay S. Zimmerman came to poetry from his life as a visual artist, composing poems to go with his art, finding as much joy in painting with words as with other visual tools. He has recently been published in Three Line Poetry, I am not a silent poet, and Flying Island. He was born in the concrete caverns of New York, amid the trolley bells and sounds of subways, travelled south to Miami Beach and thrived in the warm sands and salt air dancing to the musical rhythms of klesmer, cha cha and bossa nova, finally venturing to the dark soil, flat farmlands and rolling hills of the Midwest where his roots have grown and bee...

Bloodbath by Jay S Zimmerman in shade-drawn darkness you feel your way the walls smooth, cool              remembering Sunday mornings              sitting on the front porch              chest naked              she wearing nearly nothing              watching sunrises              the color of bellinis you feel the oak banisters oiled and shaped by hands of ancient Mariners                     memories of red moon nights              ...

Editor's note: Today (Feb. 17) is National Cafe Au Lait Day. Caffeinated Alliteration by Jay S Zimmerman "What can I get you?" said the ashen blond bedroom eyed barista long lashed loveliness serving lattes I am drawn to her delightful deliciousness as I drink my morning macchiato and eat my everything bagel breakfast Bio: Jay S Zimmerman came to poetry from his life as a visual artist, composing poems to go with his art, finding as much joy in painting with words as with other visual tools. He has recently been published in Three Line Poetry, I am not a silent poet ,and Flying Island. He was born in the concrete caverns of New York, amid the trolley bells and sounds of subways, travelled south to Miami Beach and thrived in the warm sands and salt air dancing to the musical rhythms of Klesmer, Cha Cha and Bossa Nova, finally venturing to the dark soil, flat farmlands and rolling hills of the Midwest where his roots have grown and been nourished fo...

Painful by Jay S Zimmerman Quiet Sunday, early morning Sitting among bird sounds, last rustle of evening cicadas, light creeping around trees, She is gone now Leaving with moonlight My heart empty Like the lonely birdbath At the edge of the garden Void of water Longing Pierced by thorns of rose bushes stumbling half heartedly into the day Tears from hollow eyes Drunk on loneliness Broken from falling Into the blood lilies Memories of her footsteps As the wood floors creaked behind her And the screened door slammed shut Bio: “I was born in the concrete caverns of New York amid the trolley bells and sounds of subways, travelled south to Miami Beach and thrived in the warm sands and salt air dancing to the musical rhythms of klesmer, cha cha and bossa nova, finally venturing to the dark soil, flat farmlands and rolling hills of the Midwest, where my roots have grown and been nourished for...