Jeff Holt

Jeff Holt is a therapist in Denton, Texas whose poems have been published in William Baer’s Sonnets: 150 Contemporary Sonnets, The Formalist, Measure, The Evansville Review, Pivot,  Iambs & Trochees, The Texas Review, Rattappallax, Cumberland Poetry Review, Sparrow, and elsewhere.


The Choir

Their leader lifts his hand. They rise as one
Like soldiers tensed before a battlefield.
Holding their hymnals close, they hear again
The organ’s call. Soon they join in, made bold
By stanzas asking men to bathe in blood.
They stand together in their crimson gowns,
Bright books in hand, their faces stiff as wood,
In ranks like God's as yet uncaptured pawns.

I sit inside this house of faith, head bowed,
A child again, confused by reverence.
I was baptized to make my parents proud
But find no comfort in God's violence.
I crouch in silence, wishing I could lie
And join these warriors, unafraid to die.

Published in The Evansville Review, XVI, 2006



To David

I.
Were we in love? I shut my eyes or laugh,
Drifting away from well-meant, loaded questions
Insisting that a man can't droop with grief
At losing a mere friend. Offered suggestions
On how to cope, I see your wide, dark eyes,
Hear your complaints that no one understands.
At least I listened. Now I wade through days,
Submerging you in tepid pools, demands
Of work, but you float up when work has ended.
I do not call; I'm sure your wife still says
You shared too much with me. Your last words sounded
Recorded, like a toy's assurances
That you were happy and were still my friend.
How could our conversation simply end?

II.
How could our conversation simply end
With your assertion that we're older now,
As if our age is just a reprimand
For years we shared? I still remember how
You'd call me, shaking with the need to search
For understanding. On those desperate nights
We sat in darkness smoking on my porch
Defying time as all the neighbors' lights
Winked out as if respecting privacy.
We shared our fears the way we shared our smoke,
Soaking in toxins of anxiety,
And I felt cleansed, as if I'd never choke
On shame again. But now you will not come.
I sit here reminiscing, feeling numb.

III.
I sit here reminiscing, feeling numb,
Still smoking but believing I should quit.
This porch, without you, is a picture frame
Emptied, still hanging. Smoke, indefinite,
Flows from my lips like words no one will hear.
Each pair of headlights piercing my dark street
Is yours until it's passed or mocked my stare
By winking out. I must concede defeat:
You won't return, or worse, you will, transformed
Into a stranger stretching out his hand,
Wearing a grin. We'll chat until we've squirmed
Enough to satisfy convention and
You'll leave. I crush my burning cigarette
And sit in darkness, chilled by beads of sweat.

Published in Iambs & Trochees, Vol. 3, Issue 2, Fall 2004



Confessions of a Coffee House Poet

I didn't like organic tea,
But Coke seemed juvenile.
I'd hear my name and stalk up front,
Determined not to smile.

My hair was tangled like the verse
I growled into the mike.
The crowd, excited when I'd swear,
Would cheer as if on strike.

"As I am bitter, I am real!"
I'd roar in melodramas.
I shunned the forms that might block me
Or catch my misused commas.

I played with faces 'til I found
My gazing looked intense.
I claimed my writing was cathartic,
Hoping I'd made sense.

I ruled a princedom filled with smoke
Each Saturday at six.
I spread my visionary art
And picked up lots of chicks.


Published in Iambs & Trochees,Vol. 3, Issue 2, Fall 2004