Jerry Jenkins

JERRY JENKINS, has been writing poetry since 1993. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, where his poetry has been nominated for the Association's Rhysling Award. His poetry has won numerous awards in individual and chapbook competitions, and has appeared in printed publications and anthologies such as The Formalist, The Lyric, Mobius, Echoes, Harp-Strings, Amelia, Cicada, The Piedmont Literary Review, Mail Call Journal, Poetry Monthly (U.K.), The Devil's Millhopper, The Fractal, Dark Planet, Pirate Writings, and Star*Line. His online publication credits include work in Octavo, Eclectica, Pyrowords, Avalon, Poetic Express, and Deep South.

His chapbooks include AVIAN, Helionaut, Hamadryad's Passage, Candle, Monks' Wine, Our Own Loving Kind, and Confluence (in collaboration with Rosa Clement).

He is a former Marine Corps officer with 26 years of service, including service in Vietnam. He recently retired from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia, where he was Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology. He is a Sysop of the Poetry Forum on CompuServe, where he is the editor of the Compuserve Poetry Anthology.

© Jerry Jenkins

A titmouse lands, with quick and buoyant flair,
upon the sidewalk where I've spread some seeds.
He fluffs his feathers, this small crate of air,
and scans the walk with peevish eyes like beads,
then splays his legs, a pair of bouncing springs,
and scuffles in the seeds. His quick-necked pecking
mimics chickens, conic black beak clicking
on the concrete. Head up, flick of wing -
a nearby beetle's glittering carapace
awakens instincts from a distant age.
He sheds his avian mask, and in its place
his glittering eyes reveal reptilian rage.
Birds aren’t always what we think they are:
The titmouse has become tyrannosaur.

NOTE: This next poem is one of a cult series on alt.arts.poetry.comments, started by Jerry Jenkins, participated in by other poets, on the theme that gerbil dung could be used to slow down the ageing process.

Gerbil Freud
© Jerry Jenkins

I took a little gerbil in
and named him Gerbil Freud.
Never was a gerbilkin
more thoroughly enjoyed.

I might have named him Skinner
for his various reflexes.
Now a headshrink from Vienna,
with an urgent midlife nexus,

has said his Kraft is Ebbing
and he'll "pay a lot of money
for Furball Fred to do his thing
so get right to it, Sonny".

So Gerbil Freud delivers
his diurnal load of dung
for the headshrink, now forever
grateful and forever Jung.

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Julie Damerell

published in various internet journals:
Café Society Guest Poets,
the June '98 Pigs 'n' Poets,
Michael Stephen's Avalon,
and the Nov~Dec '98
Wired Art From Wired Hearts.
Her column for
Ellavon: An Ezine of Basic Culture,
is titled Rural Route Two.
Two of her essays are included in
Mother Voices, an anthology published by Rose Communications in March 1998.

© Julie Damerell 1998

Our black dog, muzzled grey like her best friend,
barks at leaves diving from trees. October
is her busy month. We look every time,
hoping for company. This morning's yap
and chase is for three hawks, closely circling
the house. Three of us run window to door
and back to see each edge of flight, to hold
in our ken silver black bodies, feathers
lined white. They balance on wind's sleeves, sewing
currents with wing and beak. Tracking their sphere,
our hound traces her own ring, wet and green.
Protect, must protect, she pants damply,
duty bound. Tonight eight deer will stand here,
red eyes glistening in a banana moon's glint.
A brown snowfall of sparrows will cover
the green before the sun's reach dries
tomorrow's dew. Today's visitors fly
away. She lopes to the door, exhausted,
job done.

NOTE: This is soon to be published in:
and is currently in: Poetry Cafe

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