Thursday, October 8, 2015

Untitled Poem

A choice I made
A choice unsure
I pray the journey
I can endure

Afraid of fear
Afraid to turn
I look behind me
My bridge dost burn

I look ahead
A distant black
I rub at my eyes
i shan't look back

kimberly baker jacovich


Friday, September 25, 2015

The song remains the same

I saw you today
because I didn't know how not to
My fingers snake each other
beneath the diner formica table as you speak
in that torpid way of yours
coming from that ancient face 
older than years lived
you speak of lithium 
and lipitor and thyroid meds
and I listen
and then I get the better of me 
telling myself not to dig too deeply
no fifth degree~
not wanting to be played for a fool 
knowing you know how I feel anout truth, but
not knowing the game
the ins and outs of addiction
talking about lipitor of all things
not peach snapple and vodka 
not over-medicating yourself into oblivion
and I need to avert my eyes while you eat
as tuna sandwich detritus 
sticks to a flaccid mouth
dropping to your lap and
when the check comes
you miscalculate 
can't add and I feel no shame telling you
what you owe
 because I am angry and hurt and sickened
as you sing into your purse 
looking for your money
talkng about your smart phone bill
being $500 dollars for one month about apps that remained on 
and your innocence
it was verizon and 
truth never surfaces
never sees the light of day
as you apologise
about being on drugs
about being in a bad place
about your sorrow 
and the whole time knowing you lie, you are lying
and we make another lunch date for next week or the week after next
and I wonder how you fill your days
but prefer not knowing
because it won't matter
it won't change because
"the song remains the same"
and I listen while
my hands roil beneath the diner formica table

kimberly baker jacovich

Choice ~
in anger
years go
stepping lightly
moment by moment
no laughter
no joy
only familiarity 
too many years
with you

Kimberly Baker Jacovich   10.3.12

Thursday, September 17, 2015


There is a book. . . 

I might someday write,
Have begun to write, 
Fear tremendously, regret often, loathe vehemently, love fiercely (on those few bright days), hope to complete before my own "slapstick coming to an end".*

*ivan vladislavic
the loss librayry and other unfinished stories

Monday, September 14, 2015

release the mourning

my grandfather gone twenty-five years came to me in my dreams last night.  he was sitting in his kitchen on an old chair.  the room size was accurate but it appeared run down, a hovel, dark, with no furniture, but the one chair he was seated. it was perhaps, how it must look this day.  i don't know for certain, the house sold and bought many times.  a historical home now, at least in age, well over a 125 years.

but that wasn't important in the dream or at least i didn't believe so.  when i quickly looked up the meaning of dreams, seeing your deceased grandfather meant a happy life, which was an odd relief as my scot grandmother had sown seeds of superstition in me, now rooted and vibrant.

and then suddenly i realized why my grandfather had come to me. it was to me like an admonishment of sorts, having been floundering lately, sorrowed and unsure, hearing his voice in my head saying, "look around you here in my house, in my kitchen.  remember in your heart, in your mind, how life use to be, yet this is how it is now.  this house is the past, a good joyous life had, but now you must embrace your own life, your own family, your own home, your own time.  i am your grandfather. i gave to you then, i give to you now ~ your happy life. embrace it! live it!

Friday, September 11, 2015

my true passion

taken from my blog:  the 1916 home

I am in the process of writing a book.  It has been years of enthusiasm and excitement underscored with self-doubt and dread.  I've lost my way,  driving the characters rather than letting it be more organic.  The main protagonist remains pivotal to the story, but not in the way I had initially thought it would manifest.  The antagonist has now become an antihero as his character develops.  In essence, he has become more interesting, a far more layered character driven by past terrors.  He has become sympathetic, perhaps redemptive.  As I write this, I am feeling hopeful again.  I wrote some dialogue yesterday between two characters which has lit a spark.  I believe it is family as protagonist as each member has their story and role.  I am a linear writer, developing scenes in my head as I go along, making it as close to print ready as possible.  This is how I would write "fanfiction" -- a chapter a week.  The writing and plot weren't perfect, but they were respectable for writing on the fly.  I loved by the seat-of-your-pants storytelling.  I need that drive again. 

My plan of action is to rout out a space for myself to write. I need musical white noise, a good desk, comfortable seating, a good pen, notebook and a good computer/keyboard.  I learned how to type on a typewriter:  asdf (left) ;lkj (right). I can't do that on my ipad. It is all pointer finger action with the appearance of hunt and peck.  I loathe typing like this. 

Although, I tried to trick myself into believing I could be one of those many women DIYers with ETSY shops and the like, I have once again circled back to what really drives me.  Writing--plain and  simple.  I wanted to be a writer similar to Lorrie Moore and I got lost on the way, delving in fanfiction and feedback.  Having an audience is a double-edged sword, but I digress. 

I am on my way. . . 

Thursday, September 10, 2015

the metro

and climbing
the steps were many,
she beside me keeping pace
though easily could pull away 
like a pup on a leash
tug tug tugging
on my heart
at the very top
we entered through a door
new, nice,
the wood distinct,
the floors as well in the little room
she wanted a metro card 
a thing new
to me
to her
so we stood at the machine
as foreign as an ATM
pin numbers never used
long forgotten
i decided to ask for assistance
friendly advice
to be suddenly accosted
a man, dark hued, with a $15 dollar metro card for sale
no thank you, she said
no thank you, i said
do you know how to use this machine, i asked
and he did, his fingers moving over the screen like a magician's,
sleight of hands, 
adjustment made, an error immediately perceived, 
a change from spanish to english
knowing by the look & taste & smell of us
she held fast to her bank card
his tug tug tugging
on her riches
the courage & fear & distrust
high alert in that moment
i'm homeless, he said
do you have some money?
$5 dollars, a dollar?
a dollar, i said
that was all i had
she handed another dollar to his pot
i'm homeless, he said
good luck, i said in return
but he didn't hear me
on to more prey
no one is fooling the other
no one

Wednesday, September 9, 2015


I am stymied, without voice, uncertain as to who I am. I have become too old, afraid of wrong choices, afraid of changing, afraid of  lost time, afraid of a truncated future.  Dreams are only for the young. That joy, passion, fearlessness has somehow spilled from my cupped hands.  It seeps into the earth.  I am inert.  I call myself deliberate, born of a practical bent. but the truth is fear has clasped my heart, whispered failings in my ear. I am mired.

So I acknowledge this and lift one foot and then another, eyes wide open, breath deep, on and on until I am further along, a sudden decision made in this golden season, this barely autumn of a life, so foreign to me, unrecognizable.  And slowly I begin to love this creature I have become, realize there is yet time, future, dreams to be had, remaining.  It is this that keeps me calm, a dropped leaf on still waters, peaceful, though without true movement.  until a current catches me and i revel in the tumult, the uncertainty, bobbing in the eddy, to resurface, bouyant, gripping fast to life, finding joy, finding place, becoming, once again. 

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

a fine line

She said with the intent to eviscerate
He writes better than you
Because it was all I had

It could have been said with a sneer
Though she smiled
There was anger
Something under the surface
And I wondered what I had done to her

You couldn't take it
She had said
What? Take what?
You've said it all
And I have said nothing

How can you love like that?
And I allow it. . .


i look to you for comfort, reassurance, a thousand times spoken. 

"what do you want me to say?" you ask and i answer, "i want you to say a thousand times more, it will be alright, everything will be fine." 

and you do, after your silence and my tears and our frustration, say the right words, with the right conviction.  

i know you are not god, i know you are as powerless as i am in those times, but i need your strength, your optimism, your faith.  i need those words to bouy me, keep me uplifted.  

i hope all will hear those words often. if not, then listen closely, everything will be alright, everything will be fine.  

finding home

to me you live in a magical fairytale, a dream for the creative heart. like you, i must be brave, sprout wings, believe, use my tools for grander things or perhaps be joyful for all i have crafted, will continue to craft without judgment or barometer. riches, affluence, the golden key, a heavy stone in the pit of me. may i talk to you like this every now and then just to feel connected to this fairytale, this dreamer's place, this needed hope offered here when i get lost? i am quite quiet, unobtrusive, so please do not worry, feel burdened. i am drawn here as if i have known you a million years before...old soul, perhaps. i am a bit dramatic, but quite harmless. 

Monday, September 7, 2015

missing you

The delicate tracery of your love forever etched in my memory. It is influential and true, capturing the majesty of simple moments. 

Sunday, September 6, 2015

the face of janus

the window
a roof tile
swings in the wind
a boy growls
out his phlegm
is he schizophrenic,
daughter asks
I do not know
move along--
cats sit on
rusted air conditioners
two stories up
a red house
with an eternal
all night
a beacon
the wife was thought
to be buried
in the basement
a bottle tossed
in the recycle bin
a father
a drunkard
smokes joints
behind the garage
shoots off M-80s
sings fire in the rain
In my home
the piano
fur elise
my tea cup
my book
I close the blinds


fading sight
newborn eyes
catching movement
wonder renewed
watching life's shadows

Saturday, September 5, 2015


here i am texting my son for needed help and he is buried in grad school work and i begin to feel disheartened and pedestrian and old. how's a regular gal suppose to overcome well just that? am i more? this is ridiculous! should i try? i want to, i really do. i have written three novel length stories, more, all fanfiction, but decent. i had quite a few readers. many wonderful letters written about my writing. but tonight i fail the most simple of tasks and words fail me as well. should i try? yes, i will, always do. dang frustrating stuff this writing, this html, this ridiculously easy blogging which stumps me every single time. writing is so much more difficult than this. hence my dilemma. this is merely a test.