r/justpoetry

What do you call

a midnight car

beneath a borrowed streetlight

on a road

that doesn’t know our names,

where your breath catches

every time I get too close

to the center?

Would you call it friendship?

There is panic in your silence,

a twitch I’d hoped to see.

You shift before truth slips.

But I’m not the one

you’re trying to convince.

How can you sit beside me,

pulse bursting through your sleeve,

and pretend

this isn’t

everything

you’re terrified to want?

Tell me, love,

is it fear

that’s got your tongue?

Surely,

it isn’t me.

That Blue

Not sky-blue.

Not the polite kind folded into summer dresses

or painted onto nursery walls.

Not the blue beneath the portraits pallor.

No

this is the blue that pulls.

The kind that gathers itself miles out,

shoulders rolling beneath the surface,

muscle and memory and something ancient

deciding to rise.

To roar.

It looks calm

until you stand close enough

to hear it thinking.

Deep.

Cold.

Alive with a violence it hasn’t spent yet.

That blue holds storms

like secrets in its throat

swallowing thunder,

tasting lightning,

waiting for the moment it can finally

break.

And when it does,

it doesn’t shatter.

It claims.

Climbs the shore in a rush of breath and hunger,

wraps itself around ankles, knees, ribs

as if it remembers you,

as if it needs to permeate the skin.

That kind of blue

doesn’t reflect the sky.

It pulls the heavens down.

And if your eyes carry that colour

that restless, rising, dangerous calm

then somewhere inside them

there’s a tide

that never learned

how to stay still.

And neither did you…

My almighty shade of ocean.

The room forgets its edges
when you move,
everything softening
into something I can almost hold.

There’s a quiet kind of gravity in you,
not heavy,
just enough
to keep me from drifting too far.

I don’t look directly,
I don’t think I could,

only the way the dimness gathers
and something warmer
threads through it,
like light learning how to bloom
without breaking the dark.

You turn,
and it follows,
that hush of shadow and glow,
folding into itself
like a secret I’m not meant to name.

I stay where I am,
pretending stillness,
while everything in me
moves with you.

And then,

something almost happens.

A softness at the edge of you,
barely there,
like a thought you didn’t mean to show,
like warmth slipping through
before you can quiet it.

You catch it,
or try to,
tucking it back into silence,
as if it never belonged
to the light at all.

But I saw it.

Not fully,
not enough to claim,

just the way it lingered
for a breath too long,
glowing faintly
inside the dark

like something golden
that didn’t mean
to be found.

On the list of memories; All kept as files on my head; Today the drawer opened And I got reminded of you; And …Of course …I got reminded of that taste …In my mouth, …When I tried to taste you. ..I got reminded of How it turned out, You were oranges and apricots, But of course made of plastic;

There was a devastating wave
Above the pool of red sludge
Made of sharp carpenter's nails
Rising against the black skies
Metal flung around the landscape
Like flecks of paint on a canvas
A manifestation of mechanical death

The future gets swallowed
With a cold efficiency,
The present starts to mourn
Ruthless indeterminacy.

In times of bloodshed,
There aren't any victors.

Today I am yesterday's tomorrow

Past presents foretold Future forays

Into miasmic, Mnemosene memories

Marbled creations mesmerize my every- year monthly

Daily devotions decide emotions

Whilst springing towards free- fall fascinations

Summerland recalls winters bone- chilled Home; Winter detests it's euphoric, gloaming, glow

And all reside within hands, wheels, cogs of hourglass sand time

Handed out amongst drought, to quench Love's dehydrated rein

(The Daily Pull And Push In Feeling Alive)

By Bocephus Jackson, The Hemlock Bard, ©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

_______

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.” — Kenji Miyazawa

_______

The autumn sun amid chaotic waves,

Sets the scene for those unmoored,

Witnessing a lived life before the grave,

And meaning wanting to be explored.

“The fish aren’t biting, they rarely do,

A silk thread stare is a death threat,

I cause my own destruction, it's true,

Yet the act is a debt I don’t regret”

“It's a mortally meaningful distraction,

We serve and celebrate as we thrive,

Amid the strains lies our true passion—

The daily pull and push in feeling alive.”

“The tendency to grow numb with age,

Lingers with each one that gets away,

Yet, the actor cannot leave the stage,

Nor dismiss the unique role they play.”

“Sometimes a nibble becomes a catch,

So we hold fast to the line and wait,

Into the dawning sun as one will latch,

As a determined act not left to fate.”

“So test the waters and their currents,

Even when stuck in the wakes of loss,

Inevitably, there are some deterrents,

Even the Fisher of men on the cross.”

_______

“Even a river eventually finds the sea.” — Unknown

_______

Author’s Reflection

“The stage is a world of illusion; yet the life it portrays is very real.” — Laurence Olivier

To honor Paschal Triduum (the Three Days leading up to the ultimate act of devotion) on this Good Friday, I wanted to do something special. So when Ambar2 on Allpoetry sent me a kind comment about one of my pieces, I weaponized the opportunity.

By marrying both, I took an underdeveloped metaphor within their entire body of work, along with various adaptations of their verse, to craft this testament of faith and the love that readily embraces us, especially in those moments when we cannot feel its warmth.

So whether you are out there in the current or stuck in a wake, the Fisher of men can walk on water. So he’s got you. As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Who knows, you might be the next to get the Bardic Inverse. Have faith. Back to work! Right then—

Gone fishing…

_______

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” — Emily Dickinson

_______

©2026 Bocephus Jackson. All Rights Reserved

Everything that is, is true / Yet, not everything is true / Though, there is truth to all things /

He made a rope out of willow

To hang himself on it

So when he loses his breath

At least she will weep for him

I was walking tonight and saw a face in the moon

Silver and pale against the blue

It stared back at me and smiled

When I smiled back I offered it a greeting

And it returned to me with pleasantries.

As we walked the moon told me a story,

And I mirrored to it with stories of my own.

The moon told me it's thoughts, it's feelings and dreams

And as I listened I realized I was telling my own.

I started to open the window and the light of the moon showed my shadow

Alone against the wall

And I realized the whole time I was just wishing I was opening it to you.

I remember the night you swore you’d stay.

You swore-

you’d never walk away.

Your voice didn’t shake,

your hands didn’t budge,

your eyes held mine.

I was safe.

I was safe.

How do I unhear that?

That promise didn’t break clean.

No.

It spidered throughout my veins,

splintering into the marrow.

Peace hasn’t touched me since.

CONTEXT: My wife passed last May and most nights, we slept without the curtains/blinds closed. And I have an obsession of picturing shapes and things from the sky, hence the title. Enjoy

As my head hits the pillow

I keep the blinds open at night

So I can look out the window

For clouds paving the way

For the moon and the stars

Which I will use as my blank canvas

As I can paint you with my eyes

Using blurs, tears and fatigue

However these bodies align

Hang it in my dreams

wishes are for____

A flower bloomed in a shade

where sunlight stayed softly, and dew.

A man stood erect, relaxed,,

with regret a fainting remembrance as Hugh.

His shade covered Shoes, soft leather blues,

stood facing the bloom,

in dew sprattled souls and etched leather patches in

two.

He held his gaze on the passing charade of butlers

and maids,

off doing the bidding of she who outwitted all that is

truly charade.

The taxi pulled up and stopped with a flup,

as its squeaky brakes eased from the jolt.

No worries my friend, I’ve got you, hop in,

the driver called out to the man.

He stepped through the door,

tucked shoulders and core.

Both shoes on the floor.

As the taxi man braced, shifted, and floored, away

from the flower and dew.

A shortcut my friend, looked back with a grin, wasn’t

chagrin,

a look more of sin than something so charming and

thin.

The river is silver

But not glittering

Reflecting the black sky

Menacing

Cold

Inviting

Promising

To succeed

To make it quick

To reduce everything

That was ever beautiful

Into the mud

Never to be seen

By living eyes again

Scream.

Go on and scream for me again.

Bleed.

Go on and bleed for me.

I don't care anymore.

But maybe I'll pretend.

Hurt me.

Go on and hurt me again.

Desert me.

But I will no longer defend.

I will no longer defend for you.

Or open up, or play pretend for you.

Love.

Go on and try to love me once more.

Or walk out on me again. Baby, there's the door.

Maybe smile.

Just smile for me again.

Now that it's all over, it may help my heart to mend.

But don't.

Don't you say I didn't try.

Because if you say it, you'll know that it's a lie.

I'm here. Or at least I once was.

But now I fear.

I fear that it's over.

Now I'm writing to you, baby just because.

Because if I didn't tell you how I feel.

You might just forget that our love was once real.

So bleed for me.

Just bleed all over the floor.

It might give my life some color, once you walk right out the door.

Just look me in the eyes.

Just tell me what you feel.

And you might be surprised, how much you love me still.

how lucky am i to grow new branches in familiar trees?

not a life of adjustments, but additions

making new roots in old soil.

i do not go into this lightly.

i hope when you think of your hand in mine, you know i felt it's weight long before i had any claim to it.

and yet

i want to find safety in this quiet.

in gentle kisses,

and letting alarms ring for the illusion of five more minutes.

yearning has not yet burned me, so let me know its warmth.

show me what you've learned,

and i will show you how i love.

take my quiet considerations and run with them,

bring me back a souvenir from wherever you go.

How do I turn off my heart?

Can anybody tell me?

Because I don't want those lonely feelings to start.

They always overwhelm me.

I tried to give you everything you needed.

I tried to get you to love me back.

Baby I begged and pleaded.

But if you wanted to leave me feeling out of whack, then I guess you succeeded.

So now I'm asking.

How do I turn off my mind?

How do I turn off my feelings?

Maybe just a hint or sign.

Or a new beginning.

But everytime I try to start something new, it all burns down in flames.

So what am I supposed to do?

I just can't turn off my brain.

If it's all the same to you,

I think I'm going insane.

So please can someone tell me its alright?

I just need a little comfort to sleep tonight.

Can someone whisper it will be ok?

Then maybe I can make it through another day.

Maybe someone can hold me, for just a little while.

Maybe it would help me to remember how to smile.

I just need someone to tell me.

That it's not too late for love.

This heartbreak's getting overwhelming.

Seven thousand one hundred and three —

common days pressed by life.

It is time.

.

Ten pups, four males —

a medley of coloured ribbon.

.

Number five.

A chance.

.

Father’s gift —

a beautiful boy.

.

From different places —

his name chosen twice.

.

At home, in our room —

an ordinary night.

.

Across from his den,

a monument to memory —

time left untouched.

.

The teddy and a pup —

thousands of days bent inward.

.

A mirror —

the fur, his nose.

.

Ribbons …

matching green.

.

His name —

Barnaby.

son of consolation.

The first hallow day,

the last he would be —

the cold son shines in the Fall.

Drowning — lungs fill with tears.

.

Our watershed.

.

Father and Mother —

chests twisted and sallow.

Agenesis — the birth of death.

.

Mother’s gift — a grand plush teddy, adorned:

fur, as soft as his skin, its ebony nose —

and a ribbon.

.

The second hallow day,

the last he would be —

the cold son shines in the Spring.

Father walks — taking breath.

.

Quietly perching above the ward, a murder gathers.

.

At once — a screaming cloud, wings clapping.

Echoes between buildings.

.

Run — fast.

Threshold crossed —

to her bedside, gasping.

.

empty hands.