an occasional diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers First We Must Be Friends I always aspired to a seasoned heart, to a well-traveled heart. Still I’ve longed too to lie back in the meadow in the lap of a lifelong love. Now I see this seasoned heart travels wherever I do. And first we must be friends.

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers On the Braided River Up ramp I join this braided river, its woven flow, currents and snags. Off right freeway bank Mountains rise snow-robed. Ahead deep pink in great daubs across a lowering blue horizon. Souls by the millions for miles upon miles by wordless agreements carve [...]

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers In a Honeyed Light Over each moment hangs a shadow, because The only oath life keeps is death. Yet each moment is bathed In a honeyed light, because this alive moment only is real.  

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers In a Black Quartz Sky Night rain drops sweet-cold on eyebrows and cheeks. Rivulets blur my glasses As I walk to the car, folded umbrella tucked under my arm, Streetlights on blacktop street a flare of diamonds in a black quartz sky.  

I was working the Sunset Strip that night. I pulled my cab over to the curb in front of the Rainbow, or Gazzari’s, or the Coconut Teaser. It was a Friday or a Saturday night in early 1987—a long time ago. There are some things I remember, and some things I don’t. I remember her. She [...]

Yes, it’s only from a box. But the classic, Kraft Dinner-style, bright, nearly radioactive orange mac ‘n’ cheese is a sensual treasure and a deep comfort. Properly prepared, it’s a fallen beauty elevated anew in this cardboard modern world—a redemption of the cheap and commercial. First you boil the water, until the lid of the pot clatters [...]

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers Everyone’s Trying to Do Their Best Walking round Silverlake Reservoir, norm seems to be little to no eye contact. So I can watch each runner, walker, in solitary concentration; young, old; worried, determined, Grooving to earphones. I can see it so clearly: Everyone’s just trying to do their [...]

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers What’s Breaking All week long I’ve felt like something was broken or breaking. Only this morning did I realize: What’s breaking is my heart.  

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers I Always Liked the Sad Songs As a kid I yearned forward to earning my own scars of the adventuring heart, My heartaches and hard-won wisdom. Now down my long rocky road looking back I find it’s gotten hard to listen to those old sad songs.  

a sporadic diary in three-line poems by Jeff Rogers Whatever It Is (Last Call, New Year’s Eve at the Thirsty Crow) He leans into the bar. “I’ll have a raspberry vodka with cranberry.” The pretty bartender just looks at him.  His voice sways on its feet. “Or a vodka-cran. Or whatever it is.”