Poetry by J. E. Cook


The Year of the Comet

A Poem by Josie Cook

In the stars; it is revealed, the ending, so start again.

The Year of the Comet

It’s 1981,

And it became a near miss,

He named her Della,

For we all have a star paired

To our sainted souls

In the immense universe.


Comprising on its blank, dark canvas

to form

The many sparkling constellations.


Her same scar will reveal her to him,

in their destined future.

She was normal…

Until her convergence with an extreme coldness

Then, a single hot charge brought her

To the surface,

Dripping wet and still somewhat cold,

She sought the rise to her destiny,

But she isn’t capable of change yet.


Ellis wanted her.

He wanted to know her deeply,

Know her significance.

Her daughter contacted her,

The star of her,

And, she also contacted the moon,

Causing an extreme storm.


Dying becomes clear with her slowed beats of

Her withering heart.

At last, clear lightness returns,

She rests.

He knows why she ran away,

Their love converges as she reveals her true identity

To him,

Her mother, her grandmother, and him,

They all know her now as the brightest star

in the Comet’s trail.


She remembers in tattered pictures,

Regaining her natural course in life,

As she rides on one silver thread

Of hope and faith inside this vast world.

–J. E. Cook ©2015



 Wanting More from Father Clock


We dream about turning the clock backwards…

So we can have more instances to unite.


We know that our life only comes here once,

So we’re going to do whatever makes us happy now,

Before it’s too late to share our smiles together,

Here on this precious land we call our Earth.


Yes, we will cherish these current seconds,

Before we return to dust and ashes,

To Float off in the airy motes and wet undercurrents,


our once beloved soil and bountiful waves of collected



We’ll be remembered occasionally when the vapors of unhappiness,

Touch someone’s soul causing their blue heart to miss a pulsation,

As their overwhelming tears create a wetness on their forlorn faces.

–J. E. Cook ©2016



Remembering Holly

A Poem by Josie Cook

Breakfast at Tiffany’s ~

Remembering Holly

When Moon River plays, and she loses her key,

After exiting the powder room for a quick getaway,

Her super is mad and dopey.


A man needs to use her phone,

But old yellow cat without a name,

Lands on his shoulder.


She is crazy for sleep,

And trying to muffle the outside sounds.


Arriving from Rome on a Thursday,

As she seeks her black alligator heels–but he looks on.


Sally Tomato will prove it–every Thursday for seven months

He pays her. The lawyer that talks of Sally,

Has to have a visit once a week.


The man is upstairs, above her.

As she takes care of herself, getting ready to go to Sing Sing.

She goes to get her 100.00 for one hour from the lawyer.


Then, he gets to know her–the neighbor that reminds her of Fred.

The writer of Nine Lives.

A novel takes a long time and he slaves for the big one.


She muses about her brother–the army man.

Holly says, we are friends and that is all. As she climbs

Into his bed to share his shoulder with her dreams.

Her tears touching his tan skin, as she sleeps.


Her telly in the suitcase, the writer is worried about the noise.

She departs, the police arrive as the writer goes back upstairs.


Uncle Sally exits with his weather report on New Orleans.


Moon River calls to the writer as he types his beginning.

Calling him to the window to gaze at her singing quietly on her sill.


The smoking man leans below on a slender sapling, following him,

The writer ends up on a park bench and they join each other.


Holly, Pauli, and the long lost man.

Was she married at fourteen?

Surprise in the Cracker Jack box,

Would it be Doc?


She isn’t his anymore. Doc leaves by bus. Her tears return.

The writer produces a smoke for her.


Returning to their building drunk,

Missing the key.


He carries her up the stairs on

His strong shoulder to her place.


All she seeks is money,

Rusty married the queen of the pig people.


She only wants diamonds,

Except she is waiting on forty.


Stealing masks and running through the streets

On a dare.


Not Fred or Paul,

She is seeking a rich man.

Paul gives her a fifty for the powder room.


She doesn’t want to be put in a cage; nobody belongs to nobody.


Holy is a wild thing.

Running through the rain

Chasing after the writer that lost her yellow cat.


Kissing in the rain with the cat in between their bodies,

It becomes a happy ending.

–J. E. Cook ©2016


Nobody’s House

Vintage lacework

Lines your crumbling porch steps,

Wicked weeds

Grow through your spindled bars of cracked gray-white,

Brown-green moss

Crept in to devour

Your smooth cool surfaces of beady pebbles.

You became so forgotten,

And your history has no recent accounts to verify,

Except for those silk spider webs and some eerie transparent beings,

Lingering inside your dusty halls,

Where cracked wallpaper becomes tiny dust motes,

With mystical orbs floating upward among the decaying

light fixtures,

And tattered tapestry walls.

Your red clay shingles, long gone in many places,


Big black holes,

Where the spirits and old sorrows collect,

Panes of tall glass are missing and long ago shattered.

Hearty vines are tangled and growing through open areas,

And they surround loose metal gutters clanking in the wind.

You look mournful and sad

With a permanently tired presence,

Circled by tall dead grass and brown gathered scrub,

You have fallen apart

In this lonely address,

Located on a dreary back road,

Among the ploughed rows and endless fields,

That meet the sinister thickets,

In abandonment.

–J. E. Cook ©2016


IMG_5950 (3)

Magnolia, KY


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