Jonathan Ballam
Jonathan Ballam Poems
Peter piper picked a pair of pristine pens
From the local bookstore.
They were blank
Silver coated Cronin chrome, with two small golden knobs on the end
...
the dry drain
burn-soaked tears cripple me
the pain smudges the purple night
moans thrum in me
...
Out on the lake I sit, the
grass is emerald, and the
lips of the leaves are green.
Alone, the birds talk like lovers,
...
he frowns
drowns in sleep
his head fed by a string
it drapes the weather over him
...
The graves are pure
She said
And nothing ever had meant the same to her
In the
...
This morning the toothpaste tubes
were fornicating.
Clamped in a sticky embrace, and
creased
...
Come inside and close the window
The thick sun is still asleep.
I’m left to lie on aged sheets, that
I grasp in little mounds like children.
...
Jonathan Ballam Biography
I've been writing poetry since the age of 10. I was weaned on Yeats, Ted Hughes and R.S. Thomas. I see myself as a hunter of simple images. I also enjoy philosophy, heavy metal, and social commentaries. For more info see my blog page: > philosopherpoet.wordpress.com)
The Best Poem Of Jonathan Ballam
Peter Piper
Peter piper picked a pair of pristine pens
From the local bookstore.
They were blank
Silver coated Cronin chrome, with two small golden knobs on the end
They had nothing too important on them
Not enough to make up a silly nursery rhyme anyway
Jeremy Peter wrote round ringing and wrought words
He crafted the bleak blankness into a sizable hole.
He sat down in the kids corner, where his own private world
Strung up in books and a tethered conscience
Grew
He carefully clipped and cropped, cut and trimmed a poem.
It was silly and stupid…probably nonsense…but the feeling absorbed
His heavy Head
The pages spewed out soft tender tentacles that spun a speaking silence
Around him
The arms and legs
Of his words and thought
Kicked back the pent-pulled-up pressure…
It told him to relax
And drink in the murky mold and mixture of
Words
It said that soon he’d see something sweet
Something so strained with sensuous syrup
That it won’t be a poem anymore
Just a ditty people throw in their heads,
Spinning with out an end…and hopefully
they’ll forget the story.
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