Justin - Chocolate

Bite in Lying

Take a cookie

Take a bite

Bite the lie

Bite your tongue

Tongue assaulted

Tongue is tasting

Tasting the lie

Tasting a fake

Fake delicacy

Fake chocolate

Chocolate is dark

Chocolate’s not white

White is for rice

White is for milk

Milk is for dunking real chocolate cookies

Milk is for making the cacao less bitter

Bitter is the flavor of authentic chocolate

Bitter are my thoughts against the imposter

Imposter, nothing but sugar and dairy

Imposter, using an icon’s name

Name it something more appropriate

Name it not for all it lacks

Lacks the strength

Lacks flavor

Flavor is the melted essence

Flavor gives the substance life

Life in this is only shadow

Life proves this pretentiousness

Pretentiousness calling this gourmet

Pretentiousness claiming this superior

Superior white?

Superior- I laugh

Laugh at the claim and name

Laugh, laugh while I cry

Cry “White chocolate”

Cry “I’ve been fooled”

Fooled by the name

Fooled by a promise

Promise of complexity

Promise of passion

Passion drives chocolatiers precision

Passion is dark, never pale

Pale in comparison to the truth

Pale grows my face in wonder

Wonder why this thing exists

Wonder by its creator’s lying

Lying by saying this is chocolate

Lying by saying chocolate is white

White…

Chocolate…

Chocolate - Jason

Dream of Chocolate

scent of cocoa
scent of dream
dream of flavor
dream of melt
melt in bowl
melt over simmer
simmer over water
simmer and stir
stir the pieces
stir and let stand
stand and inhale
stand within yourself and draw the cream
cream over ice
cream to beat
beat into shape
beat into peaks
peaks of snow
peaks you whip
whip the egg
whip to firm
firm with sugar
firm with whisk
whisk in joy
whisk the rain streaked sadness away
away from kitchen
away and prepare
prepare pool of Hershey’s
prepare to fold
fold in egg whites
fold all at once
once with hope
once complete
complete with whipped cream
complete just enough
enough stirred airy
enough you can feel the bubbles of sweet burst
burst as a vision
burst from cover
cover the mousse
cover and chill
chill for one hour
chill until set
set out goblets
set to fill
fill with dessert
fill with Chocolate
chocolate as art
chocolate in layers as seasons of life
life...
art...

City - Jason

The Last Homely House

Beautiful she seems to float or hide
A timid girl whose scent you can’t forget
I was fifty then and Oakenshield was by my side
Protected Misty Mountains foothills set

Babbling Bruinen warmed the air
She sleeps upon that river’s golden shore
The enchanting house of Elrond stripped us of our care
Here precious little rest bestowed great cure

Graven ancient house had perfect Halls
For food or dance or work or sleep
Soothed on twilit porch by gloried tales and waterfalls
Charged was she the elves and men to keep

Sixty years on There and Back Again
And ink like joyous days seem nearly done
So like Gandalf I sojourned where I dreamed from my home, Bag End
That the journey end where once begun

Justin-CIty Love Poem

Plymouth, My First True Love

Could it be said you were my first true love?

Safe haven from an oft too frightening world

Shelter from all ugliness outside

Instilling small town humbleness and pride

Of tree lined streets with flags in breeze unfurled

Those rain slicked streets soft with lamp light pearled

When coming from the Bean or Penn I stride

And to you all my fealty I confide

As I feel your arms about me curled

Yes, I must say you are my first true love.

But did you know you were my first true love?

Though others may have vied to take your place

You are the measure by which I compare

Looking for your heart in city square

Looking for your warmth in street's embrace

And when the autumn morphs the foliage face

I think of cider drank in chilly air

Strolling a Fall Festival thoroughfare

So how could one my love for you replace?

Oh, you must know you are my first true love

But do you hold me still, my first true love?

As life has caused me far from you to roam

Out here ‘neath western sky by mountain’s peak

Or those long years in bleary desert bleak

Taking barren sand for fertile loam

In my heart, all leads to you as Rome

So when your name I see the signpost speak

My eyes awake as your first view I seek

And seeing you I know that I am home

And that you hold me still, my first true love.

And you should know that leaving you I wept

Knowing in my absence you would change

But always safe your memory I’ve kept

Long miles can't my heart from you estrange

Nor can time passing cause the ending of

My love for Plymouth; you my first true love

Jason - Decorative Object

A Vase

It masquerades upon the dark wood shelf,
So plain creating space to isolate,
On center stage the vase is by itself.

For one long year it held this change of state,
Glass cleaned of dust which did accumulate.

No sign of contents which it cupped before,
Enduring idle days on basement floor.

The glass it curves the light which passes through,
And only hints to shapes which rest inside,
By bending both the edges and the hue.

Translucent truth obscured it tricks the eye,
By all the thorny stems and sticks to hide.

A simple shell in which the memories hold,
Contents arranged and left as they grow old.

The rose petal paper faded pink,
Such beautiful nostalgia colored thoughts,
Alone and dried they only make me think.

They’ve aged a year the little budded knots,
But back in time they pull my heart in shots.

I see the card of sympathy embossed,
Attached with prayers and signed with thoughts for loss.

The Pitcher

In autumn colors orange and gold and red
Like the fire from which it was born
That flame which o’er the artist sweat and bled
Meant for a shelf or table to adorn
A flaw just one that brings the object scorn
And for one errant line it is reject
But he the vessel for his own elects
 
Why bring the reject with him to his house
Was it the flaming colors that made him choose
Was it a gift he brought home for his spouse
Did it adorn a shelf or was it used
Did he gaze upon the glass and muse
In his own mountain home could he foreknow
This fire would burn on distant peaks of snow
 
From that home in West Virginia’s peaks
Now home in Salt Lake City’s mountain sprawl
Years and generations slowly eke
Artifacts lost decayed in aging crawl
But here the vessel sits surviving all
Through grasp of four generations hands
Not returning aging glass for sands