About jftoomey

I'm many things, among which is a linguist, a therapist, a scientist, a business owner, a student, a traveller, a dreamer, a poet, a friend, a dog lover, and I'm sure some other things that I'd rather not mention here.


Like a legion of ancient
Roman soldiers
suffering silence in the sun
an ancient olive grove
stands boldly, face to face
with the pressing, midday
Mediterranean heat

For nearly 20 centuries
it waits, tirelessly
for the searing star’s command
as undaunted by passing
thoughts of time & death
as it is content to thrive
putting down roots
ever deeper
at a rate of one foot more
for every passing century

Proffered trunks
like chiseled chests
stand firm
stand tall
thick undulating limbs
buck coltishly
‘gainst the shifting, sand-hewn
swords of pressing winds
outward, upward
towards the sapphire summer sky
rolling leaves viridian
on the one side
shimmer silver on the next
flamboyant tongues flicker
urging peace with life’s rhythms
surrender to its flow
its feasts, its famines
its dawning, its dusk

In silent harmony
I might have heard
them sing..

Dance dauntlessly
in the fierce
and biting wind
friskily, like a sea of rippling silver leaves
in the sweet and gently
shifting breeze, Be quick
to make waves of joy
of rage! Bear fruit
– abundantly
then in silence, yield
to each and every
pulsating caress
of the glistening, fire-white
fecund, golden star

Miami Haze

A tepid, electric cyan sea splashes,
painting my sweaty knees with salt.
Chest-high, pumping,
thick black rubber hoops pull lazily
‘round a glistening pair of
stainless-steel spokes,
leading me, sluggishly
‘long a sun-poached, yellow-brick path,
one inch closer – ever
to the buoyant, airborne poet’s mind:
the one who is free;
where finally, aloft!
he soars. When,
in the time it takes
this hummingbird mind
to switch a fairy tale’s focus,
a piercing, menacing, hiss and roar
– coastline fighter jet maneuvers
rip mercilessly
through the pale blue tint of surrender
to one blissful, Miami morn’s
silky haze.

Body Pillow

he slips ever-so
into the pale
blue-grey shadows
of the sheepish, dawning
spring morn’s light
face first, peeking
from behind the white, paint-chipped
wooden door ajar
just in case – so
not to wake me;
he glimpses my snoozy
snoring body – prone
my naked thigh & nalgas
snuggled limply ‘round the length
of a crisp & creamy white
king-sized comforter
kneaded flawlessly
to the form, to the girth
of a full-grown
pillow man

Constant of Contentedness

Without knowing
the simple puressence
of our being We just might spend
an entire addled lifetime
in a psychologicself

In the current
and ever-changing weather conditions:
Partly cloudy,
with a likely chance of thunderstorms…

In the one who’s been conditioned
– to react!
Bewildered by worldly events By biochemistry’s
flights of fancy.

The surest way
for you to know
the joyful, unrestrained
nature of puressence Our perennially present
and essential
climatic constitution:

72 degrees
With bright blue skies
& a Constant
of Contentedness

is through silence…

In the meditative state
of communion
with things otherwise,