… more recollection.

By J. K. McDowell

December 2017


I am ever becoming a thing of more knowing

And more unknowing.  The spiral unrelenting,

Cuts in both directions, inward and outward.


Perhaps our lives are half dream and half nightmare

Yet we do not know which is which.  Running headlong

Into terror instead of just falling into joy.


A desperate guilty war criminal drinks poison

At sentencing.  Certainly, a form of justice

More humane than an impromptu firing squad.


Careless tending of the soul – the roots and the branches

Interleave, everything becomes inseparable.

Careful tending of the soul – ah, same results.


We all know those connect-the-dots puzzle books.

By your hand, the angel you pencil in, is a demon in my eyes.

This is how abject malice becomes public policy.


Where do our shadows go when we step in darkness?

Tell me James, I know you have done this a few times.

So for you, poetry is not escape, instead more recollection.