Jesemynn Cacka
Bio
I love poetry. Not the classic "roses are red, violets are blue.." but more gritty, visceral, and descriptive poetry about real life experiences of what it's like to be human. I also enjoy writing works of fiction in romance and horror.
Stories (9/0)
Stranger Unknown
“Automatic Steel, yep.Got a four day pass coming up with that one.Sergeant said, ‘We need a new motto.’I said, ‘No problem, Sarg, but what do I get out of it?’‘A four day pass.’‘Perfect, I got it for you. Automatic Steel!’‘That’s good, I like that.’‘Thank you very much, Sir, see you next week.’Piece of cake, that’s how I got a four day pass.”
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
Screeches
The silent stillness breaks somewhere within the dark hours. Far away at first, a chirp in rhythmic pattern. A tune faithful enough to set a clock to.Still in the distance, another bird chimes in unisonSoftly poking at sleeping earsWhere groggy brains realize morning is soon.But just like a snooze on an alarm,Sleep wraps me up in her loving arms to ignore the feathery disruptors.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
The Mountain and The Mushroom
Birds sang their melodies high in the pine trees bathed in the hot sun of mid-spring. The silky strands of web connected grass to twigs, branch to branch, making a hammock for a spider who’s just looking for a place to relax, and for lunch to be served. If I had to let my imagination run wild I would accuse him of looking for a larger snack than a few flies who happened to pass through. Probably something a little more like my face wide eyed with sweat trickling down my temples, as I meticulously scan the soil for any signs of life besides more spiders and caterpillars. The ground was dirt dry, the river was roaring, and somehow the wild flowers found enough water to grow, but the mushrooms laid dormant deep in the earth without even a strip tease of what may come. It was the second time this year my boyfriend and I went Morel mushroom hunting, and found nothing. My brain tried to reason that it was still too early, and maybe the conditions weren’t quite right yet. The other half of my brain played on repeat how I had no clue what I was doing, and half the locations I sought after were merely guesses on maps I threw darts at. It was the beginning of my fourth year as an active forager, my first year as a pregnant forager, and I kind of knew the basics of what Morels needed to thrive, one of them being a recent forest fire. Since our valley is notorious for fires—every year we brace for the damage—I was not lacking in the need of fertile, scorched earth. I just wish I could put the wild in wildfire, since that would be a natural and common thing in our forests to occur on their own, but more often than not it’s caused by a stoner ashing a pipe with too hot cherries, an owl flying into power lines in an electric spark of feathers, or plain intentional arson. Whether it was caused by pure thoughtlessness of human, or a freak accident of birds, it still gave all of us foragers a reason to look forward to every spring, and whatever bounty may follow.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Families
Wormy Goddess
The moon shook me from my sleep, Slid tendrils of silver shine through strategic cracks in shoddy blinds. Wispy fingers slither underneath my lids, Prying open already loose shutters. Early morning, when witches dance, hounds snore, And sleeping men are turned to darker corners, I am face full to the rays of reflected sun. Dim in his conversations with a full Luna,She tries to translate what I can't understand,With face scrunched and eyes wincing under a bright blue sky.In the solitude of my wakefulness, I can't help but greet her: Hello, good morning, Banging on my soul like there's a fire in the house in urgent warning.With how things have been going lately, I might as well be surrounded by flames. Wormy goddess, Slipping through windows in iridescent clothing. It's nice to see you so full after weeks of waxing and waning. Through example I've learned the intricate dancing Of when to let go and keep holding on. I still step on toes and trip on laces, But at least I can recognize when I'm in the presence of greatness. Slide through my window, push through my blinds, Knock on my lids,When the dance is mine. I'll be here waiting between the lines of slumber and divine.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
Spare Change
I know a man who drops change wherever he goes.Popping from pockets in clatters of quarters, Like Pop Rocks falling from mouths in too loud of bangs. Metallic ringing announcing his presence In hidden nickle trails from the door to the bedWhere piggy banks up heave silver dollars onto well used sheets. Dimes line the bathroom tile, And pennies mosaic kitchen linoleumLike fountains guarding tourist landing strips.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
Tumble Dry on Low
Someone put a coin in my ear,Heard it clank on the graveyard piles of quartersIn the depths of my gut.Shut my jaw, pinched my nose,Selected Tumble Dry on Low.A mechanical whirl of hiccups and swirls,Ribbons of sloshes, and toe curls.A fleshy door with no hinge,Just a hatch at the bottom,Of folds and expanding holes.Break glass in case of emergency.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
Midwife of Death
It was if I were a midwife of death,The kind to support a transition but never give two cents worth of my opinion.I’ve never died,And I don’t quite know what it’s like,Except for that dream I had of my grinning neck,Split wide open draining the contents of all that I was.I kept my eyes closed,Forced sleep till life found me again.Oddly, all there was, was nothing but still darkness as I ran on E,A taste I wasn’t expecting.
By Jesemynn Cacka5 years ago in Poets
