They Are Void

They thrive on social unrest,
gain in numbers through
the weakened and broken
misfortunates searching
for answers
in all the wrong places
easily swayed
through their tattered souls

They strengthen in our fears
faceless and unknown
until their moment comes
lives wasted
lives used
lives that allow
their powers to spread
at sacrifice

we are the lambs
they feast on
cloaked in a religious
frenzy of distortion
political pustules
threatening to burst
and ooze out on us
as our tears
and fears
wrapped in tears
attempt to cleanse
away all surrounding  sins

protectors hidden from view
creating the voids
of security reflected
through economy
and fear brought to terror
bringing society to
their knees
while they mushroom like mould
on our fears.

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The Tick That Never Was

This image shows a comparison between the size...

This image shows a comparison between the size of a tick male and the size of a matchstick head. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


The legend goes like this,


If you know
you were bit
by a tick,
no bigger
than the head of pin
found it
on your person
peeking it’s bum out in the air,
head burrowed deep inside
it’s gourmet buffet
your blood,
or if you see a
dart board pattern reddening of skin
they call it a bull’s-eye rash
that appears around a
very tiny lump,
then it is very serious
and you must get treated
because a tick has been there
a clear sign
only lucky people get
but what happens
when you don’t know
you were bit by a tick
no bigger than
the head of a pin
you didn’t find it
hiding on your skin,
they say it goes away
because you didn’t know
but if you know
don’t miss the treatments
this disease can kill you
only if you know


Posted in Living with a debilitating disease, Lyme Disease | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

ticks talk

tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc



Lyme cries
heart beats
b beats b beats b beats b beats
beats too fast
beats too slow



talk stops
for a grateful second

ticks talk loudly
with bio warfare soldiers
to infest the giants
that plunder through the land
reproducing by millions
all across the globe
a pandemic of silence
and denial
in this censored war
as these tiny soldiers
form alliances
with mosquitos
warm bloods

hide their heads
in the sand
white wash the darkness
with media in hand

ticks talk
tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc
the clock
ticks last

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i want to fall into you
swim in your aura
of regal purples, calming blues
surrounded by a yellow-white light
that cradles unaltered hope and faith
your strong arms
stretch around my frame
my body in yours
i want to believe
there is security
a sense of long-awaited relief
but i know
your strength determination
and easy steadfastness
will only
push me over the edge
of precarious sanity
that hovers over hope
while swimming in defeat
tears drench my face
my clothes growing damper
cries that won’t stop
until soaked through
and my clothes cry with me
creating a pool of wet cold fear
that will suck you in

a warrior of sorts
you would willingly walk in
to my puddle now turned
deep pond to dark lake
where still waters run fathoms deep
only to
drown along with me
sinking slowly into my well of desperation

release your hold
relinquish your grasp
to save yourself
You effect
far greater numbers
that i

i am unsafe
corrupted by breathing in polluted spirits

Posted in Searching Souls, The Art | Tagged , , | Leave a comment


A poem to the old Café Twigs couch

It seats two
or three
and if you squeeze
it seats 4
but the two in the middle
don’t count
through the evening
those 2 will slowly sink
into the quicksand
hidden beneath the sad
stuffed pillows
worn down
by sinkers
over the years
so the 2 disappear
it seats 2

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my life is spun
with tight circles
of blind repeats
I lay down 
every tread mark
left behind
every fiber
matted down
with wear
and tear
the worn out
welcome mat
every shoe
greeting every
assumption blow
with a smile of generosity
different footprints
same style
over and over
and over
how do I stop them
from walking all over me
while they keep insisting
I match the decor
for appearances sake
the time to re-decorate
change the rotations
erase the patterns
and stand up

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dust dry
tongue scraping
desert sand

a well of waters
flooding visual fields
streaming past ideas
growing from experiences
of muted voices
black and white,
river waters
cutting through stones
of past oppressions
freedom exists
in the flow
of expressions


Posted in War Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

I said

I say no.
not now
I want to explore
with you
I am open to explorations of all things good
but not now
not yet
there will be
a yes
new discoveries
but no
I need to work
on what I’m building
way out
of who I was
a vessel of life
to carry me
away from what I knew
true to yourself first
that cries out
to embrace
all things
that are possible
the internal instinctual hungry need
to fulfil all passions
once left neglected and starved
no more to suffer
to fulfil all passions
very easily
no thoughts needed
minus conflicts
of yes
of no
of not now


Running the Death Race Marathon

Run soldier run,
see the soldier run,
run fast,
run home,
run scared,
please pause to smell the rose petal
fragrance that lingers on your wife,
soak in the smell of your newborn’s head
the milk sweetened breath
that tries to resuscitate you
with hope and dreams of a future
wrapped in an infant’s smile
and STOP

run soldier run,
I see the solider run,
run on
left over steam
from this last tour,
run with the weight
of the screaming past
riding on his back
run from the ghosts
who wake him in the night
run from the burdens
making heavy his soul

run soldier run,
we saw the soldier run with
the glinting sun’s kisses
lost in the sweat
that pours from his head
a floodgate of tears
held back too long

run soldier run
he ran, I saw him run
run ruined,
run ragged
run heavy
as he tries to run
backwards in time

the news talk;
Master Corporal Richard Curnow, 25
returning from his second mission in Afghanistan
went missing on a river valley training run for
the Death Race Marathon earlier today in Edmonton

run soldier run
see the soldier run
run into irony
as comrades search

you ran and ran
you ran from everyone’s eyes
now they seek you in green and blue flocks
you were never alone
just blinded by the sweat,
where did you run to

The news talks;
a body found 22 days later
identified as the missing solider
where the
North Saskatchewan River
swallowed the soldier whole.
No foul play,
recorded anywhere
in this death race
titled an “accident”.

This poem was inspired by an actual news article:

The author did not personally know the soldier.
©2013 r.m.jacobs

Posted in War Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Treasured Jewels, Encounters

Often when a person crosses our path
they leave gifts in their wake.
Some we recognize
occasionally we even learn from them
adding light to our journeys
strength in our steps forward
others go completely unnoticed.
Ephemeral in our consciousness,
bread crumbs discarded in the past.
As I discover this new life I’m living
the creativity and intellect that,
as presents,
surround me
the fire for my muses
the light for my soul,
the passion and messages
awakening like stirring beasts
stretching into the day,
those walking with me
lovingly chosen
graciously appreciated
are the strength I draw on
to explore with wonder
this new life risen
from the ashes of the past.


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