Sunday, October 11, 2015


A fragment of one face, a bit of one
limb, a piece of one dress.  A sewing
machine going wildly.  A building up
of image.  What is it to become?
A camouflage figure that can tie
varieties of knots.  A corduroy jacket
and goatee, tattered copy of Nabokov
under one arm.  A simple T-shirt, hat
announcing a favorite team, and pair
of sneakers, caked with dirt.  
The sewing machine keeps ticking,
ticking, needle rising to give the fabric
an ornate and methodical wholeness

JD DeHart


The slap of water is somewhere
to the right.  Somewhere, on the darkened
surface is a small vessel.  
It could be seen moments ago, but the moon
is obscured.  A bridge, in the distance,
rises and falls, as cars blink across like
eyelids.  The sound of tiny crabs clattering
against each other is somewhere below.
Inside the old structure, overlooking
the water, settlers and workers carved
words and ideas that no longer make sense.
Like two hundred years from now if someone
reads this poem, their then-language unlike
mine, trying to make sense of where the boat
may really be.
JD DeHart
Keep You Forever

This is shameful.  When I was little,
any visitor or guest became mine.  Didn't
matter if they were there to see me.
Or someone else.  I wanted to pull hair,
hold them down, make them watch my
silly movies I watched every day.  
Which is so different than who I am now,
creature who values the moment of silence,
keeps distance, does not invite,
is not comfortable with invitation, a being
somehow the reverse of that little kid
who wanted to keep an audience.
JD DeHart

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...