April Poetry Month (Day 14): Jesse Frewerd #npm17 #wppoets

me and adriannaMilwaukee native, recently published in Blue Nostalgia for military themed poems; Jesse Frewerd is a US Army Veteran, MMA enthusiast, avid chess player, passionate musician, and developing poet.   






Reverberating appearances bounce off walls
seeking closure, but concrete’s not ideal
for dialog, acoustics nonexistent, and the
music is always, just too loud.
Maybe it’s me, but I can only read
lips if I can hear you.
Content is causality to noise,
Casualty- cigarette breaks
though it’s cold outside and I quit six months ago
for the third time, but the potential keeps me from ghosting.
Exceptions for a chance, we dance
Dubsteply for weeks, though I sense your distance growing
Though I try to ignore it, but things change,
they always change.
We both wrote a great first verse, got to the chorus to soon
and forgot the bridge to bring us back to the song.
Maybe I expected too much, but I did expect more.
I’m fluent in self-sabotage, different dialects in each exposure,
but it appears this was your native tongue
and I’m the fool for not catching the accent.


Opening Act

Presence sustaining dissonance | like wrongly fretted jazz chords | crying, pleading for attention. | I’m the audience, you’re | the curtain, the musician | no one notices | until music ceases and silence ensues. | Conversations overflow the dive | bar, suddenly, like a storm | the rest of the clouds realizing | they aren’t talking over music | and strangely start whispering to the sound of | other people talking. | The vapor has been cooled to | saturation, everyone’s buzzed | and polarized stratospheric chaos | assembles noctilucence | now visible in the twilight. | The main act sets to take the stage. | Your equipment’s put away, out of the way, | and I’m the jukebox to your night. Playing | conversation in-between songs. Put quarters | in me and for a few minutes we |sing the same tune.



Pulsating resolutions,
the ambitious New Year’s type
never kept, that quickly accumulate at the
back of one’s mind, like
little synaptic attic boxes
forgotten, until it’s time to move.
Unpack one, here, there, until I’ve
lost myself in someone else.
Celebrate better days
days when youth, travel
and momentum still carried you.
Better days
days making love to California
beaches and Bourbon Street experiences.
Reminisce kisses at midnight
seeing that big ball drop
days before I started counting
down new hobbies.
Geocaching & philately,
Party favor a distraction
distill some new feelings;
I’m window shopping satisfaction
never content because the
wild at heart always drown
in every year with new resolution.