Three Poems by Jake Sheff

The Solemn Oaths and Fair Assurances of Coopey Falls

Say what you will about the passage of time,
But with it I’ve learned that when a force
Of nature, instructed (I know not how) in

Dancing a two-faced gavotte, begins to think
About God, it begins to think. At Angel’s
Rest, I asked, “What kind of empathy is this,”

While looking down on the Columbia River
Gorge’s empire. I’m sure the angels meant
No disrespect by not responding. Cognition

Grew less modest. The view molested air
Infused with cognac’s repetition, a sort of
Power plant for prayers. We can’t discount

The possibility that every higher call to good
Available to hear up there – as numerous as
The laws that fill the corruption of a nation’s

Soul – will go unheeded, when the hikers
Overrate their ears, and underrate both love
And soap. The sky was ambitious of fame;

The Faraday constant was constantly crossing
Itself. Pretty Boy Floyd would blow some
Cash to see the riverbank from there at sunset.

To understand irrational behavior or an odd
Belief, just look into that person’s altar; any
Idols there, it doesn’t matter which, provide

Your answer. I worship now at heaven’s coat
Check. Coopey Creek was strange, but can’t-
Miss stuff was stranger; I must’ve seemed

Like a lion tamer biting his nails to the eagles
Overhead. (“Be patient, little one; that’s by
Design,” is what they’d say, if they could

Hear my stony mind and touch my sandy
Mood today.) Propaganda, with oars and
Sails, departed for the moon. Envy, without

Spears or bows, did something only freak-
Azoids would do to feel superior; I’ll not
Pervert the trail’s intent by going into detail.

Everyone edits everything, every chance
They get, but this memory’s in the big
Leagues now; a cedar cathedral. I sold my

Hatred of higher standards, as if I was
An arms dealer, to the clouds. Nights
Without a strong foundation are exhausting.
​
The grass was very dry up there; winter,
Leading up to that day, had been a real barn
Burner. Fish anointed that day with honey.

A Day in the Life of Klootchy Creek

“…For every man alone thinks he hath got
To be a phoenix, and that then can be
None of that kind, of which he is, but he.”
- John Donne, The Anniversaries

I’m reading a beautiful description of dawn
In the desert by H. Rider Haggard, as
White-throated swifts, from an autumn most

Dead the slow, yellow blade of Wednesday
Withdraw. I’m searching my memory from
Cellar to attic, finding no Sauls hid among

The baggage while I finger and eyeball salal
Berries. These flowing waters, always they’re
Learning to be a fool. Impossibly smart,

Impossibly caring, things which go bump in
The night are not afraid to set boundaries
Under this Sitka spruce. It’s riveting, to hear

The ribbit ribbitting, and not to vainly
A negative make appear; from it, additions
To the list of things which don’t exist don’t

Come. What’s the cure for this intellectually
And morally superior feeling? My doctor
Thinks it’s poetry. But nature’s beauty civilizes.

The sky’s a hypnopompic blue in reverential
Eyes, and tastes of pralines as pride evaporates.
Even Claudius said “yew-juice is sovereign

Against snake-bite,” which was wrong, but it
Adhered to this undoubtedly true principle.
We shouldn’t forget the horsemen, always

And everywhere mounting a spirited defense
Of nothing…A creek’s more fair with kids
And cabins near. Case after case could be

Cited did one wish it. There was a rainbow,
Strange to tell, that arched above derogatory
Deaths today. The trees wear my ideas

Like a war; they never wear each other out!
Morning bows with bows it borrowed
From spring; a wonder to behold, like

My great aunt, when she went from postcard
To postcard, waving at her friends. “A monopoly
On goodness isn’t possible, yet I seem to see

It in your eyes,” she told me when she thought
I was my dead brother. It brings a brunchy mood
To bite this marionberry olee by the jagged

Answers on these banks. But something takes
My bronchi like they’re a breakfast of
Beefsteak. Maybe a pomarine jaeger’s

Born in too aggressive sorrow. Iconoclastic
Men are still men, and men need icons.
Experience threw my icon in the air and caught

It with a bayonet in front of its parents.
(The sun will write in its diary, “The going
Was difficult.”) A northern alligator lizard

Walks by on extempore steps. It looks at
Me, and thinks, “Living with the savages
Is not without advantages.” Organs set

To fail are flying overhead. A deadly
Orgasm occurs in the chasm between
A couple Western Hemlocks. I recognize

My enemies were right and my leaders
Lied, as I look on the reflection of
A L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poet and

Righteous tortfeasor trying to make sense
Of it all on her own, and from scratch!
The most fictional fiction celebrates
​
Riparian gnats. As a teacher, it’s only
Second best to pain. Now I understand why
Mammals never dress tomorrow in rags.

Elegy for Goldfish I: A Failed Acrostic

Machiavels grew beards with wings
Under disillusioned spring’s
Spell, then you cured winter’s fever.

Tillage took you for a fool;
All have pedestals to fill:
Rain’s whatnot owes you a favor.

Day’s intelligence forsook
Stalemate, castled in your rook.
Hallelujah’s real high-fiver,
​
Energy’s your Ishmael.
Faster than the US Mail,
Flames tie knots; you’re Fauve forever.

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Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and several pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.