… beginning comes.

By J. K. McDowell

December 2016


They must have always been there, the rotting breath,

The cruel stares, the festering and foul whispers.

Yet, I never ask myself, “Who are these people?”


Choose: the eye of the needle; the head of a pin.

Angels and camels, counting and recounting,

And despite the outcome, we miss the point.


We need to keep reminding each other of

The uncountable connections to the beautiful

And the numinous. Sometimes there is poetry.


Dreams escape us as we cross over to the

Latter half of the final month of a year so

Strewn with carnage. “Are you seeing this too? Tell me.”


At times the creativity coils slow like the

Python. I prefer to just gently tug the whiskers

Of a napping jaguar and see what happens.


James, the “D” stone has no color, lost in light.

There is no perfect diamond, poem or year.

With the deftness of a dream a great beginning comes.