The intellectual property contained within  (except for the images behind the poetry) and website design is protected by U.S. Code 17 and is the owned wholly by Jacob A. Courser. Permission is given to his publishers for reproduction and certain works are registered with the Library of Congress.

© 2018 Jacob A. Courser

 

Poetry

Welcome! Here you will find a highlighted collection of poetry from myself. In reading my poetry, you will have gotten to know me far better than anyone ever would otherwise. The poetry I am displaying here I consider an intimate look into my worldview, and I have been told that my poetry has a had a real emotional impact on others. What an honor! Therefore, I invite you to read through at your leisure. Poetry should be sipped, slowly or even fast, as the heart sees fit. I hope that you enjoy.

Jacob Courser has been published in two collectives. The Aerie Journal, which features "A Necessary Labor" and "Man and Music," and "Where the Mind Dwells: Declaration." The Aerie Journal is unfortunately out print as had limited printing, but "Where the Mind Dwells: Declaration" can be bought on Barnes and Noble's website, and a link is provided under the poem and in the store.

The poems displayed here are few because many, and some of my personal best, are in submission cue for other publishers. During the summer of 2017, I will be adding a poem entitled "In The Moonswept Fields." I look forward to that.

On Closure

 

1.

 

Like a Heron perched upon river rocks,

And round stones that have voyaged to other continents,

Like the fisherman who wakes

With the soft glowing sunrise

Who longs to be a sailor lost at sea,

 

There are those of us who wade in where the water is deep,

Who feel the river running rapid and the wind on our skin.

Like how the swelling tide rises to meet the enigmatic moon,

We are forever drawn to the source of moving water.

 

2.

 

Like a sky scorched red from the dying sun,

And an open toolbox near the unkempt garden,

Like a windmill worn and rusted and still turning

Long after the invention of industry,

 

There are those of us with worn-out bodies and calloused hands,

Who pause when the trees begin to lose their leaves;

A silent submission to the end of the season

Because what we’ve done is enough

 

Even when the weeds have grown in.

 

A Necessary Labor

 

We’ve wondered here before

    for many suns have set

    behind these darkening hills

(passing clouds catch fire)

 

Nature mourns quietly,

    trees timber with heavy thuds

    and heavy boots dig into the dirt

(axes attack wooden flesh)

   

We pack wheelbarrows full,

    white knuckles against the frigid sky

    stomachs grieving for forgotten lunch

 (worn cracked hands, aching)

   

And way back home

    mamas love quilts us

    and her soup melts us

(thick cut carrots and dirty faces)

 

Talk of the hills ensue

    about our dirt-caked clothes

    about the quiet morning sun

(flannel jackets hung on hooks)

 

Man and Music

 

Yellow light hangs on the walls

and the night-time symphony of crickets

can be heard through the open window;

the wind carries it inside and whispers to him

 

The house is asleep

except this room

This room does not sleep;

one cup at a time, melody

is brewed until the hazy hours

of the morning

 

The piano sighs a long, arpeggiated sigh

as his aching hands

hammer away at sleep

 

And the metronome beats its old tired heartbeat

loyally ticking through the hours

so he can keep pace with its stride

   

Each slip screams to him

“Don’t let me die”

and he can hear by its tone that it

must not die,

it can not die

 

He leans forward to a grand crescendo

while sweat sticks to his back

And when the sun awakens,

so the rest of the world

awakens to one sad final chord

and the silence after

 

Winter In The Suburbs 

 

Why is it that falling snow is always the loudest form of silence?
Why do the trees bow to the wind which cannot be seen without them?

The sky pours moonlight onto those who choose to gaze.
The winter snow provides rest for the weary land that needs it.

 

Outside, the clouds give up their cool drifting weight,

Frozen paw prints reflect in the moonlight,
And my shovel, frayed from years of use,
Stands illuminated by the yellow light of my porch.

 

I imagine that I am a train conductor
I chug along to far lands and the weary shovel is my plow,

I pass first through the rose garden forest,
And then through the small prairie that is my driveway,

Each frozen breath is the steam pulling me forward.

 

After the work is done, the train conductor retires

And he starts quietly towards his home.
Now he is imagining himself as himself
And from the looking glass he is looking in.


He thinks about how the snow gives way to springtime rain,

Waking up the dandelions under winter's white heavy blanket.
He thinks about the frozen brook that will soon run wildly near his backyard, About how its water playfully curves around large stones,
Stirring the sand, and always In love with the ground.