Sunday, July 1, 2018

If Dreams Were Arms

Remember how the shape of the air

fit around you?

And the trees, so surprised at

your sterling beauty.

And if dreams were arms

and lips formed air,

I would hold you, singing, forever.

Now you honor a different wind;

skin can’t feel it,

but the heart surely can, and there,

such music that ears can’t bear

to hear.

J. Pratt-Walter

© 2018

Sunday, February 11, 2018

She Really Tried

Nature tried to write this poem,

she really tried!

but the men who assailed her hammered

her right down,

her virtues both lush and crisp

sacrificed to the bastards

humping and dumping her precious ways

with thuggish dicks rolled in

vulgar corporate coarseness,

and no words

found their way home to poetry.

She wanted to believe in humans,

she really tried!

but every time she was blasted and fracked,

and for a few months after,

she cried tight immensities of tears

that they refused to hear,

that they never cared about if they did.

She wanted so sharply to be loved,

just to be loved!

Her pink labial flowers and her veiled waters

were just a place to dump jizz,

the fragile fruits of her countless breasts

there to be grappled

by the apes of lust, greed and power,

thrusting the sonnets back down her

sacred wild wellspring,

violated as fuck,

mute as the unearthed seed.

J. Pratt-Walter

© 2/10/2018

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

The Old House

Houses wear their history like a shawl,

draped loosely, with a

pin of years to hold it together.

Those voices?  Your mother, your father?

All gone like a late snow,

and now your own, dispersing like wood-smoke

clocking all your years.

Feel the night

walk softly as a fawn through doors

and peer at itself

through midnight-blind windows.

Hear it husking though the old wood furnace,

counting all your steps and your time

until the patient end.

J. Pratt-Walter © 2018

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Heart, Wings and Song

The first poem of the year


is the keening tundra swan

lost on migration

with a broken

wing…  Just the creak

of snow over snow and sadness, no wind

singing through her feathers.

Will you be the Healer

by just being present, listening to the redness

of her heart a few more


The secret is, heart and wings are mended

by love,

just enough love to give her back

to the flowering sky-path

of her own ways,

heart, wings and song.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 1/1/2018

Friday, November 24, 2017

In the Belly of Forever

The unspeakably large


    wears the imprint of

all the passion

my slight being can hold.

The Bang went, and I,

still unmade,

went along, and there,

in the belly of Forever,

you too.

We are

pinpoints on end,

inconsequential atoms

when alone.

The electrons of these words

are too lazy and soft

to be taken seriously,

but the Universe is dilute

compared to the white Gravity

of my Love.

J. Pratt-Walter

12/31/2014, reworked 11/2017

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Listen (Without your mouth moving)

Draw life out as flame from air

and wood; let our listening

be a life created

by our endeavor to truly hear

the speaking behind the speech.

Part the walls of all the barriers

we create; let your hard labors

fulfil the staggering cries

for more love

in the world.

Pull on the clothes of peace

and patience; real love never comes

without vigilance or even

regrets.   Listen

without your mouth moving.

Breathe.  The fire is lit.

Bid it declare more light


J. Pratt-Walter, © 11/12/2017

Friday, October 6, 2017


No matter who is pregnant,

nor how, within

the chalice of her body

the match is struck,

alight, and there blooms

the unspeakable goddess


in a tiny cake

of cells.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2017