Poems by Philip Jarrod Jason

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by Philip Jarrod Jason

From Canary Winter 2016-17

In the past few years, Phil has spent time breathing the fog that rolls across the San Francisco Bay and walking the shores of the Long Island Sound. He currently lives about 100 feet from a boulder that was left behind by the glaciers of the last ice age.

not too long ago, curious people sat around and stared
at things in solitude. there was nothing to read. no one
to worship. there was the self they knew in silence. there
were the questions that rose up from the inexplicable. they
contemplated patiently and gave up. there was nothing
to know and they were satisfied. then came the printing press
and a new kind of silence crept across the world.
at night, some people remembered the old ways.
then someone invented the lightbulb and smothered the stars.
then television. then pop stars filled the atmosphere. then the
mind became a pop star. then there was so much sadness and
weight loss. then good silence died. then the bees
found a way across the universe and didn’t say goodbye.
they left behind just enough honey for us to fight over and
a third kind of silence. no one realized that we loved the bees.
it wasn’t in any books. it wasn’t even waiting for us to notice.
it was something that was there for us if we wanted it, like
a silent telephone of the heart that knows exactly who to call
the moment you pick up the receiver. you can use it
to call someone in the old way. the calls don’t cost anything,
but if you talk too much, you become disconnected.

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