a poetry e-zine










Poems By Jill Coleman

The gentle seesaw of your breathing,
and occasional humming of a distant car
or bark of dog drifting on the cool night air,

serve as lullaby to accompany the soft shadows
contouring the room, and the piece of moon,
sending gossamer through our blinds.

My face rest's on a cool pillow, while I,
anchored by these comforts of body and mind,
wander out into the night, drifting on air,

lighting on roof tops, and floating
towards the stars until I am the moon,
the car, the dog and your breathing.


We roll pass Salt Lake City, and journey into the open plains
of Utah. I chew on a granola bar and our stay with dear friends,
as the tapestry of greens, ocher, and earth tones, rush by us
at 80 MPH. The rolling hills in the distance move by slowly,

and bare an occasional boulder from their massive sides.
I am reminded of the buffalo we saw on Salt Lake Island,
surprisingly huge, nonchalant, and bounded only by the water
that surrounds them. We will soon be back to the buildings,

traffic and encumbered space of our L.A. home, but I
am taking one of the buffalo with us. He can sleep in our garage,
and graze the lawns on our block. But for now, he is sleeping
to Pat Metheny, as I pat his big furry head, and feel his damp,

warm breath. He barely fits in the back, legs folded under him,
his hooves almost tearing the leather seats, skin of a distant cousin.
I look forward to seeing him lumber out of the car, sleepy eyed,
snorting, and the expression on our neighbor's faces.


I remember our cramped kitchen in No Hollywood,
Where we'd eat mangoes at the counter.

We'd peel off the soft pliable skin
and nibble off the meat from the inner layers.

The ripe fruit melting in our hands,
thick, sweet juice dribbling from our fingers,

Tender, flesh colored food from the gods
with a dash of sea salt and sour lime.

The bone, slippery and firm, the inner secret
to suck from, any remnants of flavor and life

and the bowl, barely used to hold
what little sweetness we did not devour

was the only evidence of our feast
in that small, intimate little kitchen.

Jill Coleman is not a published writer as of yet. She is a registered nurse by trade, but she has always written poems, songs and short stories about her own experiences and viewpoints. She likes to think her poems inspire or entertain the reader.

Copyright 2008  Chantarelle's Notebook