Rose Water Farewell

When we were saying our goodbyes,
A lock of your hair
Fell across your face.

Without a thought, my fingers lifted
Of their own gentle will
To brush it aside.

Then you spoke with both
Your tongue and eyes,
“You were good for me.”

Your words fell like petals
Into my blood. For years,
They scented my heart.

From Sunburst Woman: and other poems about intimacy by Jack Ontair, now available on Amazon.  “Jack Ontair” is the pen name I will be using for a series of books planned to be released over the coming decade.  Sunburst Woman is available in some markets as both a paperback and an ebook.  It other markets, it is available only in ebook form.



Inscrutable Japan?
Imagine an homogeneous people
Separated by customary formality
Trying to find ways around their traditions
And get close.

Inscrutable America?
Imagine a diverse people
Separated by customary informality
Trying to find ways around their “friendliness”
And make their alleged closeness


“Bad Poem! Bad Poem!”

Writing a poem
Is like training a dog.

The poem loves you.
It loves you and it is loyal to you.
It is loyal to you and it wants to obey you – but
But sometimes…

Sometimes it looks at you, cocks its head,
And just does not understand what you
Are telling it to do.

You want it to bark and growl and bite – but
It thinks you want it to fetch,
So it drops your slippers
At the feet of the thief
Who broke into your house.

Or it looks at you, cocks its head,
And is on the edge,
On the very edge
Of understanding you,
Of getting you,
Of getting you at last — but
And it’s off racing in a direction
You never wanted it to go.

I love my poems, but I can get upset,
I can raise my voice.

“Bad poem! Bad poem!
No treat for you!”

Sometimes I yell it, really yell it.
“Bad poem! Bad poem!”

My neighbor is shocked.

She phones me, “You’re cruel! Cruel!
I’ll call the Society on you!”

I tell her, “The American Poet’s Society
Is not the American Humane Society.”

She doesn’t listen.

And neither does the Poet’s Society.
They send their inspector around.
“Sir, we’ve had a report.”

“A what?”

“A report, Sir.”

You still don’t think poems are like doggies?
You still doubt me?

Then explain to me how come,
How come it is always just about then
That my poem drops my very best slippers
Right at the inspector’s feet.

Alison, Eudaimonia, Love, Poetry, Quality of Life, Self-Flourishing, Well Being

A Fool and His Cottage

I sit on my patio,
Watch the man tug the leash,
The dog tug the man,

Both of them passing by
Faster than birdsong
Can shove a cloud
Across the sky.

Continue reading “A Fool and His Cottage”

Love, Poetry

The Mountains are Always Moving

When have you last looked at the clouds
Long enough to see them moving?
The clouds are always moving,
When have you last looked at the clouds?

When have you last looked at the mountains
Long enough to see them moving?
The mountains are always moving,
When have you last looked at the mountains?

When have you last looked at your beloved
Long enough to see them moving?
Your beloved is always moving,
When have you last looked at your beloved?

Creativity, Cultural Change, Cultural Traits, Culture, Emotional Dependency, Ideas, Invention, Love, New Idea, Passion, Poetry, Possessiveness, Romantic Love

The Time When the Universe Began to End

(About a 4 minute read)

It is incredible to me that the Arab and Persian Court Poets lumped possessiveness in with love to arrive at the concept of “romantic love”. But they did. The gods themselves were so disbelieving when they witnessed it that they forgot to wank for six days and six nights, and stars began to fall from the sky. The universe began to end! Nevertheless, it was true. The poets really, honestly did lump possessiveness in with love!

The consequences have been devastating. In effect, the poets created a schizophrenic concept of love.

Continue reading “The Time When the Universe Began to End”