under the heading
 blossom   I find
shotgun shells  
   hollyhock parasols  
       wads of juicy fruit         
      ammo       
combat boots
  (don't shoot)

I find
  the places    
      I almost took you      and I almost let you go
hands up
        hands all the way up

I find 
  peace
    in the cracks
      in the tarmac

a white butterfly
   dandelions   
cattails

in the muck
  of the train yard
     crushed geraniums  
baby napes

  Your hands grew up   long thumbed     

I find
  you
    still slay me 

One petal     ripped    
     at a time


Written with Jennifer Savage
By Jennifer Savage and Reka Jellema
September 2014

The gathering is key
Plumaceous feathers
By the crowds
Clouds of cotton
Plucked from loam
A woman willing
And a satin sheet
Where do we go
So fluffed and so unwoven

We travel
On a foam of down
Traverse the hillocks
And the mounds
Of mannequins
Carpet them in blossom
And every softness
Carries in it
The prickle of the nettle's
Sharp retort

A sudden clap resounds
And then we move
Into the thistle barbs
So still in our encirclement
And calamus costumes
Look at us -- our eyes
They sweep the audience
When all have gone
The artist comes
Triumphant with a duster
And reviews

Reworks
The actualities
We occupy as muse
And as creator
Existing only
Where assemblies
Can see us

Each one of us becoming
More, in contemplation
Of the other, we are
Flagrant in desire


Written with Kathryn Ross
By Reka Jellema and Kathryn Ross
September 2014

Our dandelions
yellowed in translation,
words paling, fading stains,
nicotine hands.

Even our fingers
fronding the air like palms
couldn't say
for certain
what it was
in dandelions --
blowhard blizzards
seeds swarming.

We saw the score
composed
upon the sky,
the whirling scherzi
the sleet minuets
clung like the bite
of a zither --

In our ears
In our limbs

And we danced as well
as anyone did
with a foot in the hive
and bodies
in hum at the edge
of forget


Written with Brendan Bonsack
By Reka Jellema and Brendan Bonsack
September 2014

The teeth oil clatter
of the bicycle men
gear-head lug-nuts
kitted neon top tubes
lubed and polished saddles
circled,
girdled air on gravel

A rumble of crankset
skeletons arrive in bunches
bodies hunched,
panting rubber gloves
with multi-colored fingers
sucking air in,
spitting it out
clam-skinned
hamstrings clutched

And in the parks
gutter punks
keep an eye
for the bicycle men
swap bed rolls scout box cars
muttered mantras
plumes and ash and footsores
circled,
girdled by path and sign
by steel spoke
averted eyes

All men disguised
as wheel rims
zoetropic dark and thin
chow cold beans
spoon and tin
circling
and circling
teeth-clatter chainrings
and the blur

To take a stand made us dizzy
we had to make a move
back pedaling
skidding from bottom
to bottom knowing
every pothole 
every bulb-burned street lamp
every stop sign maligned
every eye that stared us down
Nothing to call home

But the call of the bicycle men

By Reka Jellema & Brendan Bonsack
September 2014