I love poetry, and I’m thrilled to be getting more submissions from this genre. I will say that poetry is like art, it’s completely subjective. Its beauty is completely in eyes of its beholder. Jack has been published in several places (check out his bio below). I hope you like his poems, they are what I would call – abstract art. Enjoy.
GOOD ON YOU, MALIBU
Driving, I trailed behind
a burnt orange Chevy Malibu,
heading south on Addison Road
in Villa Park, Illinois.
Clinging to the back
of the Malibu were
two things that made
my commute an occasion
of cultural enrichment.
Just below the car’s
left brake light,
holding on for dear life,
was Buzz Lightyear himself.
Heroic Buzz, sprawled
on his chest, was
stretching his right arm
out in an effort
to save his friend,
Woody the Cowboy.
Woody, his back to me,
was clearly in distress.
The hapless wrangler
dangled by his fingernails
from the rear bumper,
with the toes of
his cowboy boots scraping
the rushing blacktop below.
It’s not every day
Jack Phillips Lowe
that you see a piece
of modern art
in mid-day traffic.
Good on you, Malibu—
good on you.
WAIT ‘TIL TOMORROW
Champagne was chilling
in every bar in Wrigleyville.
Boxes of division-winner confetti
lay hidden in strategic locales
about the storied ballpark,
ready to rain down upon joyous
fans at just the right moment.
Up in the nosebleed seats
lurked more than a century’s worth
of ghosts, the almost’s and the
never-would-be’s, tasting their exorcisms.
Hope hung over the field
like a fog on Lake Michigan.
Victory, though, was a conspicuous no-show.
The party fizzled out two runs shy,
with a pop fly hit off the closing pitcher
of a fourth-place team of mooks
from Milwaukee, every one of them
relishing their roles as spoilers.
Chicago Cubs fans filed out of the park
in grim lines of blue and white,
every one of them suffering from
the type of headache that only
comes from an almost-orgasm.
Next year would wait ‘til tomorrow.
Morning. Carolyn and Scott
are stretched out on the sofa,
reading the Sunday paper.
Carolyn looks up from the comics,
just in time to see Scott
raise his eyebrows and nod, slightly.
In response, Scott’s teacup rises
off the coffee table, floats through the air
and lands in his open hand.
“Telekinesis?” Carolyn says, goggle-eyed.
“Yup,” Scott says, reading football stats.
“Since when?” Carolyn asks.
“High school,” Scott answers.
“My senior class took a field trip
to the local nuclear power plant.
While there, I got bitten by
a mosquito. The next day, I found
I could move stuff by thinking about it.
I figured that by being around nuclear energy,
the skeeter was mutated somehow.”
Carolyn takes a breath.
“You’re forty years old. For all this time,
you’ve had a special power.
Yet, you haven’t been inspired
to don a colorful costume and
use your power to fight crime?”
Scott, sipping tea, shakes his head.
Carolyn’s lips form a “WTF?” smile.
“Ahem!” she says, nudging Scott with her foot.
Scott floats his cup back to the table.
“Don’t give me that face. It’s simple—
I’m a lazy, non-bulletproof bastard
who looks fat in spandex.”
A KERNEL OF TRUTH
It has been my lifelong habit
to file the pronouncements
of any and all social critics
under “B” for “bullshit.”
But as I switched off my radio
for the last time tonight,
I caught the tail-end
of a statement which
bore a kernel of truth.
“Weather,” said a woman calling in,
“is the last common denominator
in the world.”
To think that a random person,
in a far-off place,
and I could be sitting enjoying
the same strange music
a cloudburst makes when
raindrops bounce off burglar bars?
It almost restores my faith
in the human race.
Jack Phillips Lowe is a lifelong Chicago-area resident. His poems have appeared in Clark Street Review, Nerve Cowboy, and Creativity Webzine. Lowe’s most recent poetry chapbook is Jupiter Works on Commission (Middle Island Press, 2015). And he believes that Drooper, of the Banana Splits, is the most underrated rock bassist of the 1960s.