Poet's Press Wide Logo


Since 1971 ... the best poetry in books, e-books and free archives


Veasey Portrait

A 2010 nominee for a Pushcart Prize, Jack Veasey is a Philadelphia native who has been living in Hummelstown, PA for over 20 years. He is the author of ten previous published collections of poetry, most recently The Sonnets and 5-7-5 (both from Small Hours Press, 2007).
His poems have also appeared in many periodicals including Christopher Street, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Assaracus, Harbinger: A Journal of Social Ecology, The Philadelphia Daily News, The Painted Bride Quarterly, Fledgling Rag, Oxalis, The Blue Guitar, Bone and Flesh, Zone: A Feminist Journal for Women and Men, Film Library Quarterly (Museum of Modern Art, NYC), Experimental Forest, Tabula Rasa, Wild Onions, Mouth of the Dragon, Asphodel, Insight, The Irish Edition, The Harrisburg Patriot-News, The Harrisburg Review, The Princeton Spectrum, The Little Word Machine (UK), and The Body Politic (Canada), among others. His poems have also appeared in a number of anthologies, including Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets On Pennsylvania (Penn State University Press), Sweet Jesus: Poems About The Ultimate Icon (Anthology Press, Los Angeles), and A Loving Testimony: Remembering Loved Ones Lost To AIDS (The Crossing Press, Freedom, CA).
His plays have been produced by Theater Center Philadelphia and Theater of the Seventh Sister (Lancaster, PA). He has hosted literary radio programs for WITF FM in Harrisburg and WXPN FM in Philadelphia. He was awarded a Fellowship from the PA Council On The Arts and is a two-time honoree of The PA Center for the Book’s PENNBOOK celebration. For many years he hosted poetry readings in the Harrisburg area at The Art Association of Harrisburg’s Paper Sword series and at Encore Books and Music, Borders Books and Music, and Open Stage of Harrisburg, and also taught poetry writing courses at Harrisburg Area Community College Community Education Center, Martin Memorial Library in York, and for the Dauphin County Library System. He is a member of Harrisburg’s notorious (Almost) Uptown Poetry Cartel.
Veasey spent the seventies and eighties working as a journalist for such publications as The Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia Magazine, Pennsylvania Magazine, APPRISE, The Philadelphia City Paper, and The Cherry Hill Courier Post, and editing a number of periodicals in Philadelphia and New York, including The South Street Star, The Philadelphia Gay News, and FirstHand Magazine. His articles for the Philadelphia Gay News won two awards from the national Lesbian and Gay Press Association. He recently wrote an article on Walt Whitman’s relationship with his longtime companion Peter Doyle that was syndicated to 40 periodicals nationwide by the Gay History Project, followed by another article about Whitman’s involvement in the United States Civil War.

A singer as well as a poet, Veasey has released one CD album of original songs, “Build A Fire,” as lead singer of the folk-rock duo Open Book. In 2010, Veasey released a CD single of another original song, “Whether or Not the World Knows.” He sings second tenor with the Harrisburg Gay Men’s Chorus. He has been with his partner in life, David Walker, since 1978.

From The Moon in the Nest (Crosstown Books, 2002)



Once, my mother burned my hands
on the gas stove.

I had been "bad";
I don't remember how.

What I remember
is the odor of flesh burning,
surely not familiar
to most five year olds.

I remember
what scars you could see —
the others,
there is no need to remember.

I remember
watching from outside my body,
as if this were on TV.

I do not remember
the pain — or, at least,
not the part
that was physical.

I do not remember
the role played by Love
in this picture.


I own a house where I don't feel at home,
left to me by a relative now dead,
where mouths would rarely kiss but often foam,
and all seemed black and white when we saw red;
where tenderness would always have its price;
resentment would go hand in hand with love;
and each mistake we made would turn to ice,
reminding us no good was good enough;
with walls not just around, but in between;
with windows curtained off against the sun;
yet every tiny nuance would be seen,
and noted like one more debt left undone.
I am the king there now; tight is my crown.
If not for neighbors, I would burn it down.


No ashes on my forehead now;
not this year, and not
any year again

no more penance,
no denial
of enjoyment.

I'be grown too close to the earth
to buy that notion.
All of life is lent,
and not for long.

I have watched loved ones
careening by
like blurry riders on a carousel
that only turns away,
no turning back

I have watched this tree
in which my soul is sealed
grow gnarled, and lose
leaf after leaf,
in this short year
called life, which only has
one autumn,

watched the whole great landscape
inching toward oblivion
with shrinking dignity,

and while I know
that there is something more

I know, too, now
that this this
is the only this there is,

and this this
will be ashes
soon enough —

so let the Mardi Gras go on and on!


You show me the covered bridge where you want me to scatter your
ashes. The spot is remote and rural, green and lush.
The bridge is particularly old. We can see the flowing water
underneath our feet through gaps between the creaking boards.

You tell me that Nancy Culp, the actress, has her ashes scattered
here. I guess I should wonder why you would want
to spend etermity with Miss Hathaway from The BEverly Hillbillies. But
all I can think of is that this place is where I'll one day say my final
goodbye to you. Grief floods me suddenly. I start to cry.

You don't respond. You don't rush to comfort me with
caresses as you usually do when I weep. You walk on the groaning
boards and gesture at your surroundings as you explain them: the age
of that bridge, and its role in local history, the efforts to preserve it. You tell
me that vehicles are no longer allowed to cross it, only people on foot.

I guess I should be angry with you for ignoring my feelings, but I'm too
busy trying to memorize you, your every expression, word, movement,
tone of voice.

All your instructions are written down, I hear you say, in
an envelope on the shelf under the wooden table next to your old easy
chair. But now it is my turn to not listen, to
focus instead only on what floats through my mind, all at once more
vivid than this moment:

the gritty feel of ashes slipping through my fingers.

The Moon in the Nest, a 72-page chapbook, is available directly from Jack Veasey. Address inquries to bluebard@comcast.net.

Poems from Handful of Hair, Jack Veasey's first chapbook, published by The Poet's Press/Grim Reaper Books in 1975:


when i was nine
i threw rocks,
had dreams, had

you were forty,
you were the reason i behaved so badly.

the cardboard boxes
were houses
only to hide me from you.
my plastic spacemen gunned for you
        inside their bag.

you stood in the daytime pointing;
at night

your fingers sprouted from the fields
i dreamed through, running,
tripping, ankles
tangled in that poison grass.
your face

was the sky, a balckboard screaming
in my handwriting a hundred times,


i didn't act;
i was.

you trained me.

the absence of your handprint dangled
bonelike near my face.

i sniffed, i sniffed; i followed;
you will never know the things i learned.

your screams broke those windows
heat from slaps left your face red.

most important,
forty was your age;
nine was mine;

students eventually will outlive their

that burning house i drew in class
was yours.

in your language,
means i tear chunks from you like some half-
       starved bird;
in my language,
means i tear them from myself.

we talk all night.


Other Poems —

From The Captain Of The Bats

We bats are quite amused
that you think we’re
the blind ones. We mock
how you “look” at life  —  
hear our high chatter?
Even darkness has its anthems;
even distant things
are closer than you think
for those of us who live — yes, luckily —  
at this velocity.

We live
laughing, we
with our dead eyes,
big ears,
and bony wings.

We love the way you doze all night,
then slave all day at desks.
We love the way you duck
behind, or underneath, your arms
when we play pest.

We dance now
through the darkroom sky:
flashback pictures
riding on the moonlight,
leather kites
left from your nightmares.

We hear you there,
you grounded ones
still stumbling on each other,
madly perching,
searching one another’s
eyes, looking for something


Your dog is tired of steak.
He lies awake
beside you
in the canopied

He cannot sleep;
he is thinking
of his little
a whole building
just for him.

That thought
is the only thing
between him
and your throat.

All poems on this page Copyright © by Jack Veasey. All Rights Reserved.

To buy this poet's books...

Shapely cover


Jack Veasey has been a provocative voice in modern American poetry since his teens. He started giving readings and publishing his poems in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston in the early 1970s. Since then he has published ten collections of poems. He read the title poem from his best-known book, Quitting Time (Warm Spring Press) on a segment of NPR‘s “All Things Considered” originating from Southwest Missouri State University. The poem, a plain-spoken free verse monologue about the moment one quits a demeaning job, remained his signature poem and established his reputation as chronicler of urban working class life. As Jim Ruth, venerable art critic in Veasey’s adopted region of central PA, put it in the Lancaster Sunday News, “Jack Veasey’s poems pack the appeal — and sting — of universality. Veasey speaks with the clarity and directness of an Everyman. . . . a passionate poet of the people.” Mike Gunderloy, in the national small press review FactSheet Five, described his poems as “blunt, cutting narratives that make you wonder how we can possibly accept things as they are.”
Veasey has applied that same directness to chronicling the struggles of gay people. His poems and nonfiction have appeared in many major gay periodicals and  anthologies, and he served as editor of The Philadelphia Gay News and FirstHand: Experiences for Loving Men. His articles for The Philadelphia Gay News won that publication two awards from the National Lesbian and Gay Press Association. He also wrote about gay issues for The Philadelphia Inquirer, and his articles about Walt Whitman’s gay life have been nationally syndicated by the Gay History Project.
This eleventh collection spotlights a lesser-known aspect of his work. In the early 1980s Veasey began to write sonnets and other poems in fixed forms. To his surprise, it proved ideal for exploring a far greater range of subjects; some that had been “too big to tackle” — or even to face. “It pulled things out of me,” he says, “Sometimes I’d articulate something in a form and then realize, ’My God, I never knew I saw it that way.’ Forms are a great way to distract your conscious mind from censoring your content.”
Shapely: Selected Formal Poems gathers the best of these revelatory poems from three decades into a powerful, vivid, insightful, and masterfully crafted  collection. The substantial section of sonnets at the book’s heart is especially impressive and varied. Some are hilarious, some dark and disturbing, some poignant and touching: all have a clarity and striking musicality not found much in contemporary poetry.  

ISBN 0-922558-73-6. Published May 2013. 6x9” paperback, 132 pages. $12.95. To order from Amazon, CLICK HERE.


"One never wants to stop reading the kind of poetry Jack Veasey writes. ... The spotlight of Veasey's work is humanity without varnish ... the apotheosis of the poetry of involvement," writes Bob Tramonte in Home Planet News. Veasey's early promise as a lyric poet with a razor-sharp wit and a penetrating empathy for human joy and woe bears fruit in this splendid 72-page colection. Although some poems are clearly autobiographical, centering on the death of parents and the memories of a "Pennsylvania Gothic" childhood, the poet shows himself to be a colleague of the greatest practioners of the art when he soars over the mere experience of one person to the sublime, writing:

I know, too, now
that this this
is the only this there is,

and this this
will be ashes
soon enough —

Copies of this book are available from the poet. Send $11.50 to Jack Veasey, 37A West 2nd Street, Hummelstown, PA 17036.

To download and read Jack Veasey's 1975 Poet's Press/ Grim Reaper chapbook, Handful of Hair, CLICK HERE.



| The Poet's Press / 279-1/2 Thayer Streett/ Providence RI 02906 | ©2009 All Rights Revert to Poets