Skip to content →

Jason Crane Posts

haiku: 11 January 2022

walking through history
thinking about renting it
sunlight floods the boards

/ / /

11 January 2022
Lenox MA

Leave a Comment

POEM: Cannonball Adderley Plays Cole Porter

Cannonball Adderley Plays Cole Porter

Home is wherever you are, I used to say.
Then I became homeless.
I have to be careful;
I’m tending to my own brain now.
Each fresh pressing of the reset button
means less time to build anew.
Despite the evidence of our eyes,
days only get shorter.
Closed doors can’t be opened.
Thomas Wolfe seemed pretty sure of himself.
I hope he was wrong.

/ / /

10 January 2022
Colonie NY

Leave a Comment

Buds

For reasons that are unlikely to be made clear, my 19-year-old cousin has a stand-up cutout of the pope.
Leave a Comment

haiku: 8 January 2022

little brown birds
search the snow for seeds
by the solitary grave

/ / /

8 January 2022
Newtonville, NY

Leave a Comment

POEM: Unequipped

Unequipped

I browse the poetry sections of bookstores,
see my books there on the shelves.
I gave them all up when we said goodbye.
For the second time in my adult life
I am without possessions.
The last time I was homeless
my poetry collection was the one thing I saved.
This time I donated thousands of books
to the Friends of Tucson Public Library.
I left box after box in a metal shed,
no one to help because the volunteers are old
and the pandemic kept them away.
I gave my art to a relative,
left all the furniture with my former partner.
Dishes, pots, pans, mugs —
the odds and ends of grown-up-ness;
all these I drove away from, into the desert.
Now I’m preparing to settle down again,
needing to start from scratch.
No bed, no couch, no chairs, no table,
nothing to put in the cupboards,
nothing to store in the medicine cabinet.
At 48 years old I’m a teenager again,
recently kicked out of my parents’ house,
woefully unequipped for real life.

/ / /

6 January 2021
Albany NY

Leave a Comment

POEM: Listening To Claude Thornhill’s “Snowfall”

Listening To Claude Thornhill’s “Snowfall”

The band announces itself with a flourish
before fading into the soft white of the piano.
It sounds better because it’s old,
a half-remembered audio phantasm
floating just out of reach.
Sure it would be nice to hear
every nuance, every breath, every
subtle shift in tone or timbre.
But given the choice, I’ll take
the crackles and static,
the muted highs and lows,
the mid-range heard as if
underwater, perhaps from
the bottom of a pool
while the band
plays on the
patio
above.

/ / /

6 January 2021
Albany NY

Leave a Comment

haiku: 6 January 2022

bent over my laptop
mask and heaphones on
where did the world go?

/ / /

6 January 2022
Albany NY

2 Comments

POEM: the librarian

the librarian

the librarian moves with pensive grace
gives each book its due
then gently returns it to the shelf

hair swept back, face concealed by a mask
she moves soundlessly between shelves
until defeated by an obstinate cart

slanted winter sun through narrow windows
sets her pale skin alight
where it peeks from her flannel sleeves

off in the stacks he stares at his book
reading the same paragraph over and over
as the sun dips below the sills

/ / /

4 January 2022
Albany NY

Leave a Comment