Jack Worthington

Jack Worthington Poems

Feeling down, I look around at the world passing before me
The sun on its fatalistic arc, streams light through aluminum blinds
A fading afternoon, where nothing was done but wasting time
I slip on my shoes and sunglasses, and then grab my keys.

Standing tall on the arid desert floor
An ancient young man throws his arms to heaven
He cannot shout our names but knows us through our brethren
Standing there, year by year, a man of native lore.

Tell me what's real, I need to know
For what purpose I don't know, perhaps to grow, but who knows
I remember that town, an arid place, where only people grow
That valley, where the sun in all its glory shows, so acidic on the soul

Throughout the ages past and yet to come
In an ocean of pride and cynicism
Hearts filled with truth are never undone
Just as light comes through a prism.

Papers strewn about, victims of callous thoughts gone nowhere.
I remember a time, seems so long ago, before our world went asunder.
No weeping, the room is silent, my heart sinking heavily into my chest.
As I remembered that time, when the radiant sun, danced around your dress.

The golden sun set over the crest of the big foggy mountain
In it's wake, a thousand shades of green slowly turned grey
The leaves of oak unfurled wave goodbye to the midsummer day
Still damp from the noontime rain, dripping like a fountain.

His heart sank with the sun as another day passed
Light streamed through panes of glass to touch the floor
Casting ever longer shadows that covered the door
He reached for his keys tripping over a cord

Long ago but just yesterday I knew a man who flew
In a town so far away where the nights became the day
The sun shone so bright on this city made of clay
Our dreams were big, the day long, and the city new.

Seven years ago a vow was made
Even then, she seemed quite afraid
Concerned her hair stayed in its braid
On that morning before the day began to fade.

He said he was from Colorado, then from Texas
I'm still uncertain from where but somewhere out there
Where the dust clowds blow in the summer air
Many small towns are out there, where America despairs.

Some are born to love and others for destiny
In rare cases however there is another category
He was born not to love or to rule, or to follow
A bell without a clapper he exists to ring hollow.

All decays, the leaves on the trees and the stars in the sky
Ending in various shades of brown and black
Slowly neutralized, then oxidized as electrons fly away
My brashness gone, it's confidence I lack.

All things come and go, their presence precarious at best
Legacies worn down over time's pounding rain unending
Blood flows from appendages to the heart, money from the rest
The best and brightest toil in ever smaller spaces fending.

She sat there in a chair looking out the picture window
The sun remained high in the sky that afternoon
Sighing, she stared blankly watching the flowers bloom
Resigned to her fate, which was not to be a widow.

He fears what he does not know, a wise voice said
Fists of white knuckles, holding tight, dreading
For all under his wrath, there would be no ending
This dejected soul, this petulant soul, was already dead.

My eyes opened to the sunlight streaming through the skylights
Measured steps down the stairs, looking at the clock ahead
Only seconds from my bed, my head felt like molten lead
The clock face measured its time, a face of pearl white.

The setting sun is cooled from his noontime glare
Now a bright orange disk in the smoggy sky
Slowly easing to the ground in despair
No longer the all seeing noontime eye.

Our golden west
Where dreams of our fathers lay
The yellow and grey pictures from by the bay
So long ago, people at their best, envied by the rest, they passed their test, now at rest.

Rolling down the road in a silver Ford
I spy on the soldiers along the road
One by one they line in formation, as if a subliminal confirmation
That their precious cargo will reach its destination

Jack Worthington Biography

I'm an American from the west coast. I live in Bodega, California. I lived on the east coast for a few years. It was too different for me to stay. The people, the weather, were all so different. People say you have to follow your career wherever it goes. That may work for some, but for me place is even more important than what we do, because we can 'do' anywhere. Place can be its own purpose, and my place is the west coast. I have not had any more hardships in my life than anyone else, maybe a few less. I'm not a damaged person tying to work things out, although I do come from a damaged age group. I think history will say of my generation that we were raised like hothouse flowers, and one day the doors of the hothouse were flung open, exposing us to an uncomfortable world that we were never prepared for. In my opinion, humanity goes through long term cycles, nations are born and die like people. They are born through sacrifice, and die through avarice. The era in which we currently live is one of avarice. Nothing ages well. Everything is created to be ground down. The only thing we can do is attempt to preserve our own dignity. I started writing poems as an escape. I continue to write for that reason, however, on occasion, I'm awestruck by something I've seen, so escape is slowly turning into inspiration. I hope you find my poems as satisfying a read as they were to write. Everyone tells us to believe in ourselves. Self respect is important, but what about believing in each other?)

The Best Poem Of Jack Worthington

I Drive

Feeling down, I look around at the world passing before me
The sun on its fatalistic arc, streams light through aluminum blinds
A fading afternoon, where nothing was done but wasting time
I slip on my shoes and sunglasses, and then grab my keys.

My car is there waiting, for a destination unknown
I start the engine, shift into drive and begin to roam
Where I'm going I have no clue
The walls were closing in, and I had to see something new.

I drive into the sunset not looking back
All the way to Ohio, until it's pitch black
I was racing the sun to California, but it was speed I lacked
So I return home in the dead of night, the loser left on the track.

I was hoping to flee this arranged marriage to pain
But as I enter the room she embraces me again
This half lived life will not be my fate
I weep until sunrise, planning another escape.

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