Jake Sheff
I.
As for a poem about fathers, time agrees:
Belial is out; some things are real
but don’t exist: a Carnegie Hall
and case of the Mondays for Jake Sheff’s egress.
At the age of thirty, when a man’s olives
become perfect ovals, yea, no man shall
bring unclean, alive and well
avuncular memories here until now goes live.
(Abba says: This means, do penance; 6 days is
better than brimstone or the plier’s reply.)
Burdened with a thorn’s responsibility
and balding, it’s no wonder the next craze is
a “dad bod” on the sun. Yea, wicked and broken,
blessed be the father’s story called ‘Cookbook.’
(But it’s not a cookbook, Abba says.) A sweaty clock’s
“Alright, already!” throws a token
allusion to Captain Hook. Tolkien recused
bedtime like a giver of days; the smallest elf
beat the biggest flea and bookshelf’s
apologies for fathers. Yea, Even Steven sussed
a cavalier cadaver asked him to complain;
befell a laughable and righteous
begetter named Otto Graf. He tasted nachos
and sour teeth. Through hairy teeth: an In-
and-Out Burger and a paean to a father’s
birthing pain. Chosen as the worm’s profession;
blood feud doing business with confusion;
always picking up messes like grave robbers:
against the law, a father’s love
belongs in time’s arcade. To entertain each other
badly – in need of a parade and mother
all for mothers’ sakes – all fathers are quick as clove.
II.
All fathers are like weeds. Everybody’s
baking loaves of bread except the dead,
Beelzebub and fatherhood’s
abandoned head. (A little Brutus
attacking a little Judas every generation, Abba
bet, for a dancing queen.) St. Peter
beckons; says, “You nearly made it!”: the pit where
active fathers meet hunger grows huger. Enabled,
aftermarket men with their wet
bones are on a maiden voyage for a share –
bought with beads and care – of fresh air
about a person with interest. A boat;
a river with a raven’s claw: it could
begin to spin forever, I
believe, as fathers do. It’s like the rivers cry:
“Accept the situation.” And time cooled,
always guessing right, a dad-like temper’s anti-
breeze. (It’s like, it’s like, it’s like,
but never ‘tis: a river full of pike
abides this truth, so why can’t I,
Abba is afraid to ask.) A father’s quest
breaks the pit where dawn is stored,
blessed be, with our mistakes; rich and poor
alike have fingers broken, yea, and crossed.
A day with trials deeper than its trails,
barmaids know; but a little Brutus wishes
bruxism on a little Judas before night washes
affluence from our greatest facts, like whales
and death. Yea, a terrible expertise,
but the best we’ve got; a father’s sullen
beanstalk grows. (Abba says, So long, Solon.)
A father doesn’t eat, pray, shit, love or piss.
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. His poems and short stories have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press. He also has two chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing) and “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision).
