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
...

It must
be in the dream
I had.
...

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,
...

2 swans floated
on 1 black: 1 white – I
never knew – a calm
lake?
...

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
...

I’m caught up
in an unstrung silence
of my insane self.
I wear the weather…
...

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.
...