.jpeg) |
| Jacob R. Moses |
“Touching the Sky”
Sunrises on Saturday mornings
before networks had 24-hour programming
are vast memories.
Sense of light and colour from the test pattern.
Darkness eradicated at the age of four.
Infomercials with Richard Simmons
outlined weight loss fallacies.
Crash diets.
Laxatives.
Vomiting.
Starved for a sense of belonging.
Excretion of identity.
Purging taboos of the psychic and psychotic.
And then the colours of Deal-A-Meal cards
eased
that
need
to
nourish my spirit,
quenching my thirst for love and wisdom.
In the morning,
I had no rooster to wake me.
Tootie from the Home Shopping Club woke me.
Gold and emeralds
eased my chaos,
adoration adorned and fever fuelled.
Perceptions of colour
often defined through
Colecovision.
Atari.
Commodore.
Low fidelity.
Higher contrast from reruns of
The Twilight Zone.
I Love Lucy.
The Honeymooners.
I craved boldness in those 8-bit rainbows.
Skylines done injustice, 16 colours aren’t enough.
Impossible to fill in a 24-hour day with such restrictions.
I observe the sky through filters,
none of which distort reality,
but simply accentuate the vividness of heaven.
Often, I reminisce of 1985,
the first time I had a numerical concept of a year.
Four years after my birth.
Thirty years prior to my father’s passing.
These days,
My eyes are hexadecimal algorithms
Pantone has yet to develop.
and my vision is HDMI.
Pupils are my perspective.
Darkness, the onyx observation
of loneliness and loss.
My insatiable need to find a place
Within this infinite spectrum.
My unfulfilled desire to belong.
The Wheel of Fortune spins
Luck is pressed.
Big money.
Big money.
Big bucks.
Big bucks.
No whammies.
No whammies.
No whammies.
No whammies.
STOP!!!
Pink hearts.
Orange stars.
Yellow moons.
Green clovers.
Blue diamonds.
Purple horseshoes.
Red balloons.
Pots of gold.
Rainbows.
Trees.
Blue moons.
Leprechaun hats.
Gold coins.
Shooting stars.
Crystal balls.
Hourglasses.
Keys.
These are the talismans of morning magic.
Ambrosia of oats and marshmallows soaked in milk.
But my lucky charms are my rods and cones.
They allow me to admire these radiant symbols.
All my photos evolved from mud.
This new set of colours is presently paradise.
My heaven.
My sky.
My ether.
Perhaps,
it demonstrates the incorporation of colour
destined to reach out.
Perhaps,
it’s friendlier
than the earth upon which I stand.
Perhaps,
I crave that which is limitless,
for skies are not ceilings.
The
outside
world
is
unconfined.
My aura
showcases skylines
———
“In Memory of the Muddy Cup (After King Solomon)”
Alas you are gone, O café; alas you are gone!
Your walls were like that of a heart,
Painted with the blood of every artist.
Your moldings gold like coins used to divine,
Foretelling the tales of falling fraternal orders of oratory.
Your coffee was strong like packs of Siberian Huskies,
Carrying excess weight and persevering
All of which gave their all, and not one slacking.
Your stage was like the deck of a yacht; the acoustics reverberated relentlessly.
Like the nine Greek muses are the inspirational paintings filling each nook of the café.
You were my island's equivalent of the cabarets of Rive Gauche,
Built upon the foundation of creative collaboration
With an occupancy of minds that could cause a cerebral fire hazard.
Altogether, you have proven mortal.
A trace of life exists no more.
I became enraptured with you, O my café, my sanctuary!
With one sip of your cappuccino, with one view of the performances you held.
How immortal is your memory, my café, my sanctuary!
How much more ambient your atmosphere than Eden!
Your air, O my café, was laden with beans, leaves, and grains.
Honey and milk accentuated the beverages you served;
Their fragrances like the fragrances of condiments fresh from bees and bovines.
A playful chanteuse was my café, my sanctuary.
A loyal coquette, a fair mademoiselle.
You were like the woman I'd expire for, a lady of untainted soul and liberated heart
———
“Guided by Parakeets”
Ten little birds once perched inside my dens
Peyote vision quest resurrected
They only venture through a cloudy lens
As psychedelia resurrected
Blue, green, yellow, and white, quite hypnotic
I now see them within this feathered tribe
My shift in consciousness is tectonic
Kombucha nursed by my grasped and imbibed
Forever dwelling in this dimension
Fluttering, three chicks forever young
Tropical land, climate resurrected
Chorus of harmony forever sung
My soul uncaged, now tears run down my cheek
May I be blessed, perpetually meek
———
“Vision Quest”
My father’s legacy
exists in Martling’s Pond
He offered two catfish
to the soul of Clove Lakes Park
Whether they survived
is a mystery to us
But fisherman often spoke
of their presence in these waters
I remembered biology class
when I learned how fish spawn
Their offspring contained in eggs
while fertilized in their nests
One may only hope
we changed the ecosystem
Perhaps we changed this ecosystem
with a gift reminiscent of Noah
Twenty years have passed
since we gave them up
Now they eat the algae
at the bottom of the pond
Here’s hoping future generations
help habitats harbor harmony
———
“Neon Signs”
Scrolling through Facebook often
feels like walking through streets
bombarded with neon signs
I become a drunkard lured
by the deep purple colors
clashing with the gold I thought
I’d find behind the noise
And still I scroll into oblivion
My depression intensifies
I am unfazed by the ostentatious
displays of self-promotion
My soul becomes dilapidated
as my eyes bulge upon sinking
into the depths of my inadequacy
I remember detoxing from Facebook
Deleting my name and manic episodes
Remembered how darkest
moments went unnoticed
Legacies die hard in Staten Island
and God help me if I become aphasic
Pens and wands are weapons
when my teeth are too spastic
to chew through the insulation
.jpeg)
———
Jacob R. Moses is a poet, educator, and spoken word artist from NYC. Publications featuring his work span five continents. He is the author of Grimoire (iiPublishing, 2021) and WTF: Writing Through Fascism (Bainbridge Island Press, 2024). In 2024, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by New Generation Beat Publications for his poem, “Lottery.” In 2025, he was nominated for Best of the Net by Bainbridge Island Press for his poem, “Reflecting Clarity.” Currently, he is an English professor at Wagner College.
.jpeg)