Jack Buck Poems

it is best at night with the snow coming down
to walk through the wide empty streets
or to stay right where we are
just on the other side of all that cold
...

occurring in a kitchen
framed by a window
above a sink
it's pouring in this town
...

It snows in my poems of my life
as it snows on the open fields over northern North America
And at the end of your street, where we can no longer see out the window
Below we sleep naked on top of the covers
...

how short can a love story be
and still be considered love
the distinction of time putting value on love in terms of weighed quality
time's insistence to prove it exists
...

If you mute the television
you can faintly hear the echo of your own voice
attempting to reach you from a distant dimension,
pleading for you
...

forgot how it goes,
but that one Jack Kerouac quote before he gave up
and taught us how to live
when he was headed west
...

down field from a distance
it looks as if a whale has been strategically placed across the midpoint of the field
obstructing our view to the shore
somebody has suggested we gently climb atop to have a look around
...

facing one another in parallel lines
coming together someone has decided to toss a ball
a momentary agreement of peace
another has agreed to play catch and to throw back
...

I am young
at the time my father is not yet old
my mother is always young
a late November afternoon between rain and snow
...

in the far corner the crowd of students in unison rise in architectural grandeur
bent forward in ready stance
arms stretched towards the field in ritual
my eyes follow watching the movement of the teams
...