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[authorhenrijenkins]

Forest Sprite 

Into a forest of dry pine With a song of fire to start I snap and scathe a tender wand And thread scales with a needle’s heart Skimmers and skippers upon brook As lightnings rest their weary head I push the seed below the grade And unearth tubes sleepy not dead. 

When I held a collected cup I reached for a flame lighted stick But spoken name disturbed me thus The forest floor did flick and click In every glance I saw the twirl Moonlit magnolia in her hair She begged me chase on far away And left me in a lonesome stare. 

A lifetime of search and wonder I seek her across land and sea To discover where she is known And press our lips in ample glee And stroll the forests of the world Worming memories until death Of blossoms, of seasons, of moon Of honey suckled with each breath. 

© 2020 Henri Jenkins ------------------------------- In ode to “The Song of the Wandering Aengus” (W.B. Yeats)

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[authorhenrijenkins]

life

Rain pours, rivers swell Into this life storms a hell Will you live to tell

© 2020 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

190911

280 Character (Twitter Length) Story

I blow. It grows.

I blow. It grows.

I blow. It grows.

I stop. I look. I think.

I breathe. I blow. It grows.

I breathe. I blow. It grows.

I breathe. I blow. It grows.

I blow. It squeaks.

I blow. It creaks.

I blow. It streaks.

I blow. It explodes.

I grab another balloon.

I blow.

280 Character (Twitter length) Story

I eat. I grow. I eat. I grow until fat becomes fatter becomes fatter still becomes just me again. I eat. I grow. Fat tastes far better than it feels and it looks best on the plate. My mind reels, my soul hates the me I have become. I eat. I eat. I eat. The end of me grows closer.

280 Character (Twitter length) Story

On a gay summer day I passed the night away dancing and talking and drinking and walking in the moonlight's gaze. It was there sailing across a sea of sand that looks turned to like, on to lust and then the spark of love banged. In a kiss, the world I would live was created.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

SEPARATION

Daylight befalls us.

Odd trees in a single stand.

Each seeking new suns.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

underSTANDING

underSTANDING

My thoughts thrive in the conservatory that is my mind.

A garden so secret it exists only in a moment of time.

Bed plants ideas rooted in the dark fertile soul.

Words seed into sentences scaping the land of me.

Until the fruit of me blooms and blossoms.

To eat of me, you'll taste but the seasons, sans reasons.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

FALLing

Beneath a sea of gray whale sky, treeborne sunsets swim.

Blowing summer from the trees til fall bristles in the leaves.

Piled high into scattered mounds, a patchwork on the ground.

Of rooster red, naval orange, yolk yellow, and a salad of mixed greens.

Hot cocoa and warm coats fire up hopes of family and home.

A chill strolls past and I fear winter's coming too fast.

The holidays stand in the path of the dreams for a new year.

Stars fall, twinking upon the trees as standards cheer the air.

Somewhere within the season I hope we find a reason

To come together and enjoy the fall falling all around.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

The Willow's Weep

The willow's weep piddles, puddles

Unto a new lake resting near.

It stands sullen bowing in prayer,

Reflecting in the light of day

Long leafy locks of frazzled head

Peer purely crazed by autumn wind.

Its lowing moan for each of us

Aches for the land on which we stand.

I weep not with rather just near,

Wishing a river of fat tears.

To float away from this here place

Or end up drowning I thus fear.

The time has come for me to leave

And there's one thing that I should state

'tis love what makes the willow grow.

The love you show and love held in.

For you a forest of willows

Your life of love will sow and know.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Sweet Dreams

Complete is the night that conceals me thus

Hiding in planed site from those in the light

Aborting grovels and their frightful fuss.

Behind timbered woods and shades of fired sand

I yearn, churn and burn in thoughts of the right

Jailed within my mind by a strong held hand.

I shy away from each day's new clutter

Existing on yesterday's yesterdays

And 'o the day 'fore I mumble mutter.

Within a remembered world, we live on

As our soundtrack replays of yester ways

I dance with the ghost of thee too soon gone.

'til my light fades and I join you in dead.

Still you lie sleeping, dreaming in my head.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

A U T U M N - I

Autumn bristles in summer's leaving

Until sunsets swim among the trees,

To season the weather for sweaters,

Under graying skies you hold closer,

Marching unto the dreams of winter,

Noting nothing feels as great as fall.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

A U T U M N - II

Autumn bristles in late summer's rim

Under gray skies treeborne sunsets swim,

Toward dark shadows of autumn's bite,

Uniting the landscape, winter white,

Marching unto dreams of a new year,

Nothing can stop fall from falling here.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

190824

"I found my youth - swimming in a copper-toned bottle," Jefiah said to me.

One of those things only he could blurt out in a moment of lucidity and appear more normal than mad. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it would be his last. He had been in the process of rebirth for some time. That damn Cobalt virus has taken almost everyone I know, or knew. I fear one day it will take me too. So much it occupies my thought, I seldom attempt to share these stories any more.

I am Staul, your narrator for this text. I document this posterity in the Sarian date 1217 p.s. (post settlement). An Earth Class planet in Cubic Charting Sector 814A, we were originally terra-formed by Stellar Properties. Roughly twice the size of the original Earth, we have a population limitation of 5 billion. A water planet, we farm seafood to survive and pay down our credit. I am a sixth generation fisherman.

The virus what feasted on the memories in Jefiah's skull came here stowed away on a freighter seventy-two solar cycles ago. It thrived in the warm, humid air. With a seven cycle incubation period, the disease had spread far and wide before we knew it was here. At that point, the ship had sailed as we would say in a maritime parlance.

Jefiah was eighty-nine in a world where people commonly live to a hundred-thirty. He was my father's superintendent and mentor to me. More than that, he was a father after my father Arkas died at sea and the closest thing I knew to a god. Now he's like a two-year old. When he's about seven the process will likely begin again and this is how he will live out the rest of his days.

In some areas, people speak of death and strength. I'm no Nietzsche but my Blue Flu version is usually some variation of, "What doesn't kill you makes you a stranger - to everyone, and yourself." Rather than suffer the loss of me I think I'd rather walk into the Great Sea; feed myself to the food. The thought alone drives me to jump the next outbound ship to wherever. One day I will. In the meantime, I'll drink to the harvest, to the moon, to those gone and to those who remain, to sleep and to peace. The peace of fishing in the present. For now, I'd prefer slumber to liquor but then the path is a river of cool, amber Barbonne. Cheers mate!

Tomorrow I will tell you Jefiah's story.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

191009

The middle of the night for me, sunlight gathered on the field to witness the coming rise behind a mottled curtain streaked in a low purple haze that lifted into deep reds and fiery oranges before cooling into the blue sea of night it chased. Along the horizon the crags and peaks of the Willamette range hacked into the sky.

We were five days beyond with another eight to go. I was ready to be done and home. Cliff dunes blew salty kisses and served a parched breakfast. I chewed at the dryness hoping to conspire spit but found none. My hungry thin jaw rattled and creaked. The easterly breeze cauterized my nostrils and smelled as if a thousand water buffalos developed bloodish diarrhea simultaneously. Or maybe I just needed a thorough shower.

In the distance a willowy bird cried out for winter's cool breath. Siman snapped me to a startle. My head swiveled searching for danger. There was still only the three of us. Lui looked me down and up again as if questioning my commitment. I gave her a wink and slapped the stock of my AR into my hand. Salty wisps rained from the crevices.

I nodded to Siman. He directed me left with a skinny gloved finger and I turned toward the remnant of a two story out building. Concrete and steel, rust bled from the walls staining what I would best guess was once a milky white stucco finish. A mostly black tattered fabric awning heralded the main doorway and air flooded through rectangular holes where competent windows once kept the rain out and cool, filtered air in. It looked like it had been some time since that was the case. The upper left corner of the building, above the doorway was missing, From my experience I would say it was the effect of a 120mm artillery shell.

I thought we should have worked our way around this otherwise mirage of four derelict buildings and an empty water tower but Siman could not get past checking it out. He was the brains and I the brawn so him and Lui argued about it for two hours and there we were. I strutted, almost comically to the front door and reached for the handle. There was none. I slung the rig onto my shoulder and felt the wood of the door. It was sturdy. Sturdy to the point of causing me to question it.

Something about it didn't sit well with me. The hairs on the back of my neck strained and bristled with concern. I stepped right of the door and squeezed my back against the wall. I quietly wrestled a puck from my utility belt and twisted three clicks on the timer. With my left thumb I pressed the arming switch and tossed the bang-bang into the window opening. A force field crackled to life rejecting my offering. The puck fell to the ground.

Fuck! I turned away breaking into a sprint for the corner. I leapt for cover just as the explosives detonated. The concussion pushed past and ran off toward the hills. My ears rang loud and hard but I was unable to answer. I belly crawled to the wall and lifted myself into a kneel. My head swiveled checking. My eyes blinked and I tried to slow breath myself into a more normal heart rate. I waited. And waited. Nothing came but silence. It was then I realized it was too quiet. I heard nothing from Siman or Lui. I pressed the talk button on my comm set and whispered callsigns, Einstein, Betty. Nothing, not even the usual static of the wonky old set. I tapped at my earpiece. Nothing. Fuck.

I stood and walked carefully to the corner and peeked around. I threw out a lofty, "Hey." "What was that Dreg?" came back in a squeaky jitter. "It was me, a bang-bang gone wrong-wrong." "Dumbass," leaked from a window in the farthest building.

Pissed and with my ears still ringing I stepped to the door again. I kicked the fucking thing off its hinges and it slid across the tiled floor like a runner stealing home. "Honey, I'm home," I announced and waited with a full clip of depleted rounds for a welcoming response.

The building was as empty as I had first suspected. All the buildings were empty. And the water tower had more holes than all of the buildings combined. None of that mattered to Siman, he was interested solely in the power supplying the force field. Lui and I enjoyed a cool spot of shade against an interior wall while the genius solved his puzzle.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

Hairs of Earth in a Skin of Sod

Again I visit woods I know.

For a near city man they grow,

Unaware I am on this branch

Witnessing snow gather and blow.

My wooden truck abandoned near,

Sitting in the stand I'll soon clear.

An elderly boy forest bound;

Lumbered hearts opine, rustle queer.

Blue's tough motor falls to a shake.

Complete is this night I forsake

Among limber spines flaked by Frost.

Still, quiet heavens moan and ache.

Timber and pulp, my debts sow deep.

In ancient woods fortune doth sleep,

And in their deathly birth, I'll reap,

And in their deathly birth, I'll weep.

In ode to Robert Frost's, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

With nothing better more to do, my analytical mind haunts me 97.3256% of the my time.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

190907

THE THIRD OF SEPTEMBER has become a most memorable day in the life of me for I feel it is the day I am most certain I will die. Think me crazy if you must but I truly believe this. "Why?" you ask. Well let me start with the one most recently passed.

The summer of 2019, the year I literally got hit by a crosstown bus. It was at the corner of 23rd and Benton on the upper Westside. Late morning and late as usual for work, I was rushing along crowded streets. I zigged left when I obviously should have zagged right to skirt around a muddling group of under-caffenated business district zombies. BAM! The mirror, the size of Delaware, whacked me between the shoulder blades and launched me head first into the throng.

A burly man with more hair than skin took the brunt of me in stride. I bounced from the hardened exterior as if a sparrow crashing into a skyscraper. He grunted and scowled at me. I bounded to my butt and drew in a huge breath to sigh and scream in song. The giant grabbed me up in a hand and yanked me to my feet leaving my pride and breath waiting on the pavement. I stared. He spoke incoherent words while brushing me off then twisted me away and sent me along with a swift pat on the butt. I scampered away like a scolded child. It wasn't until much later in the day, I fully realized the date.

In 2018, I spent the third of September in the emergency room being treated for an accidental poisoning. It wasn't food poisoning, though I have twice been treated on the third. My then roommate combined the leftovers of several cleaning agents into a single pail. After deciding there wasn't enough of the solution, they left to purchase more while I slept in my room. I woke to a choking fog and barely crawled onto the fire escape before passing out. The doctor said I was within five minutes of death.

2017 found me late for work again. I was living outside the city at the time and commuting by rail each day. It was the day my pant leg got caught in the chain of the bicycle I rode to and from the station. While certainly not a near death experience in and of itself, the train I should have been on derailed after striking a tanker truck of jet fuel, killing 86 people. Their deaths live forever with me.

I have been in wrecks, bitten by dogs, snakes and spiders, almost choked to death on food, had a large safe fall twenty feet and land right beside me, stung by a wasp to which I am allergic, and, and, and all on September third. The earliest bad memory of the day I possess is the day my mother left, headed for the grocery store. I was eight. That evening, a jogger ran across her naked body dumped in a narrow patch of woods behind the store. The man who killed her and seventeen other shapely long-haired blondes, I imagine spends every day hoping for death to end his sentence. Mother, as it turned out, wasn't an intended victim but an opportunistic stand-in for a suddenly ill woman. The woman's poor luck failed to sustain her as he worked his way back four kills later.

I would stay home tomorrow and hide beneath the covers if I weren't so afraid of the building collapsing.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

190905c

Witness For The Prosecution

Motive, means and opportunity have long been the hallmark of legal establishments across the globe. For Julian Davis they were the cornerstones he had built an eighteen year career as the now Assistant District Attorney of Cumberland County, Iowa.

Drinking buddies since high school, that Thursday night was to be the usual: beer, pool and darts. They would likely serenade no one in particular with their own cocktail of raucous southern rock mixed with the drunken spirits of classic country. Julian and Sheriff Colby James were the closest thing to a mega-star bromance the small Midwestern town could conjure. Stars of the state championship winning Cowboys of '79 their stardom continued into life.

The two had only ever fought over one thing - head cheerleader Carolyn Smithesson, a junior to their senior year. But that was a lifetime ago. Colby arrived late to the Dew Drop Inn. The work-life balance thing had crashed head-on into work. Still in uniform, he came en masse. The Sheriff stared down his friend like a stranger as his deputies cuffed, searched and mirandized him.

In that moment, Julian's cornerstones became his greatest adversary. They would weigh equally heavy upon him and Colby. A friend turned foe. The news spread faster than any paparazzi could detail.

Carolyn, brutally murdered in their loving home of twenty-six years, would prove to be the best witness for the prosecution.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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[authorhenrijenkins]

190905b

ONCE UPON A STAIRCASE, the world renowned award winning actress Jillian Chase was discovered. More than dead she had been murdered and in what would prove her most revealing role.

A spectacle befitting a millionaire, she had been stabbed in the back with her own 24k gold letter opener encrusted with knuckle-sized diamonds, rubies and sapphires. A genuine replica of a prop from her most successful mystery, "The Letter Opener." The executive producer, Jeremy Goldstein had seven produced when the film topped $300 million at the box office. It was the film that launched her career into the stratosphere and produced her first of many golden trophies.

A fall befitting a star, it appeared she had gone over the sturdy modern polished steel and triple glazed glass railing. Over twenty feet below she came to a rest on the third to seventh treads of the wide staircase. All of five-foot-three and a hundred and six pounds she would have had to hit the railing with some speed to carry her over the forty inch height. Even if shot from a cannon, she had not the weight to penetrate the glass.

A story befitting the paparazzi fueled, salacious Hollywood gossip rags, sans a sole hooker-red patent leather five inch heeled Jimmy Choo, she was naked. The partner sat upright and facing forward on the twelfth step as if waiting patiently. The shoes glowed against the bloody backdrop. Even broken and in a dead pallor, you could appreciate the allure of the beauty that was Jillian Chase.

Two long gashes on the right side of her head matted bottle blonde hair. The bulk of her lifeblood cascaded the stairs like a morbid waterfall and pooled atop pristine white Italian marble. Death had not come quick for Jillian Chase. Blood and spit spattered the first and second treads and their spindles. Stabbed and dropped like trash down the chute, she choked on death as she bled out. Her final performance, a monologue I could only imagine given before an empty house.

Broadway would go dark for a night in honor and horror.

© 2019 Henri Jenkins

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