Jerry Pat Bolton

Jerry Pat Bolton (December 2003)

“Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee… Uh, wait a minute, that’s not right. It was at Walden Pond where I first drew my breath and I… no, no, no, that isn’t it either. Drat! Oh, I got it, by George I believe I have got it.”

Born in Arkansas, Jerry left as soon as he was old enough and made his living as a linotype operator for the first many years of his life. He set type for everything from Field and Stream and Playboy magazines, to Southern Baptist Sunday School Books, to out and out porn. He lived and worked and played in New York City, Los Angeles, and many towns and cities in between. After spending many years working in the Gulf of Mexico as a cook on offshore platforms, drilling rigs and seismographic boats, he decided to do something he had always wanted to do… Write a novel. His health dictated that he retire anyway. So he wrote a novel. Then he wrote four more.


The moon looks so much different
as I sit, alone and quiet;
it comforts me as never before.
It’s almost white bright,
casting shadows as I lean against
this building.

Never noticed a moon shadow
in the swamps of Louisiana,
guess I was too busy to see.
The stillness around me is creepy;
I can’t look at the stars
they seem to be falling.

It’s this beautiful moon, man,
I conjure up odd thoughts
of where, when, and why.
You ever been in a place
where everything smelled
unfamiliar, strange and, well, strange?

On this Easter morning,
this place makes me think of
The Garden of Gethsemane.
The old song,
I Come to the Garden Alone,
sorta wells up my eyes, don’t know why.

Ah, but the Easter Moon
is not a sad sight, no,
brings to mind lively Easter Bonnets.
Houses have a soft glow
beneath dangling stars,
look, there, a shooting one.

Far away a dog barks timidly,
there are no dogs here,
I don’t think they like them.
I bring my hands in front of my face;
stare as though
I see a mirror reflection.

A strange face, a strange land,
hands calloused, bloody,
what happened?
My body clenches, desires
I have not loved yet.

Sitting beneath the stars,
virginal in amour,
knowing not woman’s flesh.
If I close my eyes, will I awake
more God-like,
without blemish, pure?

I sigh,
loudly, remembering
the melody of an oldie but a goodie.
I’m very tired, wish it
would rain, wash away the stench
of rotting meat; theirs and ours.

I watch the Easter Moon,
oh, there! Again! Another shooting star,
or is it terrorist mortar shells?