If poetry has a name, it must be Jenna Cole Steele

 Mother Earth, by Jennifer Cole-Steele
 
 I
 Struggle
 with nature
 as i toil in my garden,
 freeing the daisies from the the weeds.
 
 My
 belly is ripe
 like this melon here
 and I sing with the new seed
 Hello, my baby.
 
 Now
 on my hands
 and knees in the tall
 shoots of corn that i've grown
 I feel her
 
 How beautiful the warm earth
 feeds us as it grows
 its own fruit
 and so
 do I.





 
 Poems about Getting a Spinal Tap:

Haiku version:

lumbar puncture,
 ouch ouch
damn, ouch I am
going to get you, Doctor.






The Old Age Home the State Forgot

checkers, dusty and missing two red chips
cold baths make for hasty dips
empty cans of cream-ed corn
no more evil nurse's scorn
for the old age home the state forgot

the halls are silent save for the flicker and hum
of florescent lights for which no repair men come
fruit cocktail and butterscotch pudding abound
safe in their cans where no cooks come around
in the old age home the state forgot

scrawny old cats by the kitchen door
mewling for scraps that are thrown no more
wheelchairs and walkers strewn in the halls
"nurse, nurse" the cadaver in 4G calls
to the old age home the state forgot

one by one the residents expire
with whispers of how their children were liars,
"you'll like it here with people your age;
in the book of life, you're on the same page"
at the old age home forgotten by the the health inspector general too.




The Matching Sweater Set

Vneck, stripes, patterns

starched white shirts beneith

guilty guilty guilty

blame the victims

but the jury is hung

on every word

mesmerized by the

tearful matching sweaters

of death




another one of my famous poems.

compare and contrast with The Ballad Of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde.

the housewarming gift

by jennie steele


We carry our hopes
in boxes and bags-
gifts wrapped in ribbons
with 'good luck' tags
through heartache and handshake
we bought our first home
we're in it at last--
we no longer roam.

"If these walls could talk,"
one of us said
they'd tell of old lives
so honestly led
this kitchen where grandmas
made simple repasts-
this porch where they hoped
their great fortune would last.

Yes, now it's our love
that will fill up this house
this man who comes home
to care for his spouse
who sits here and listens
to these nursery walls
"its coming" they whisper
the best gift of them all.



The Kitchen Window 

From the kitchen window
I watch her in the garden
her chubby clumsy fingers
full of the rich soil
pulling at the flowers
and the pale green shoots

and I smile at the sound of her
coaxing the birds down
to the warm earth, singing
her tiny songs of devotion
to a well-loved toy bear
left napping on an old bench

and her blond hair ruffled
in the breeze that blows
the curtain and obscures my view
for a brief moment and I see
her sweet face looking for mine
in the kitchen window.