Paul O. Jenkins resides in New Hampshire, USA, where he often finds himself immersed in the past. With a keen sense of nostalgia, his evocative poems and short stories have captured the attention of readers and editors alike. His work has been widely published in numerous esteemed literary journals, including The Avalon Literary Review, The Madrigal, Last Leaves, The Northern New England Review, Straylight, Blue Unicorn, Nebo, BarBar, The Chamber, and The Field Guide. Jenkins’s writing explores themes of memory, time, and the intricate details of everyday life, resonating deeply with his audience. When he’s not writing, he enjoys delving into history and discovering the stories that shape our present.
“Threshold”
Two sisters, widowed,
Hold hands, recalling
Mornings in bed,
And smiles from men
Who gave them children.
Yet when they share
Their secrets,
As widows will with candor,
Both agree that fondest
Memories are of father,
A gentle man who slept
Across the threshold
Of their childhood home,
Waiting for them to return,
Safe,
From dates with men
Who would one day
Give them
Children.
“Grievant”
He liked to watch for funnel clouds,
Set off for fields
To startle opportunity.
Rambling, he’d roar under bridges,
Courting echoes
To summon harmonies.
Then, satisfied, he would
Grant an absolution,
Forgive those of us
Who fear
The quirks of instability,
And wisely go seek cover.
“Renewable”
An absence of tulips
Roused him forward,
Trusting fulcrumed joints
For locomotion.
Picking his way,
Random, in the weeds,
He recalled a friend’s assertion
That fear is fossil fuel,
Now ascendant
But ultimately provisional.
And stumbling on a stone
Roused from slumber,
New to earth,
He righted himself,
Leaned into life,
And recalled love,
Persistent, renewable.
“Luscious Bait” (America, 2024)
Summoned reasons
for triggered fires,
sparks of treason,
base desires.
Dormant sleepers
roused by one
twisting cheaper
facts for fun.
Now is the season
of fear and hate,
ample treason
And luscious bait.
“Fall”
So long I sensed that plunge was coming.
A June morning can bite
Well before October pricks us
With notions of December.
A brush became a poke,
Your pat a prod,
And when finally I fell
From the summit you had granted me
I shivered on contact with earth.
The Galway Review 