All posts by jscampbellauthor

J.S. Campbell is an American writer, poet and novelist whose works always seek to be provocative as well as entertaining. Born in Klamath Falls, Oregon to two teachers, he began writing at a very young age and has always had a creative spark. In June of 2014, Campbell published his first novel "Shadow of Truth" and authored and published "Ecce Signum" shortly thereafter. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his girlfriend and three small pets. You can follow his latest updates, read segments of the things he is working on, and chat with him and fans of his work at

The River and the Stone

The rock is sharp and rugged.

The water? Not the same.

She sneaks up to the bouldered shore,

Leaving him wondering from whence she came.


She asks to pass through the way,

And he, a gentleman, yields.

A break in his constitution

As she flows through and to the fields.


He notices the touches

As she move past and over;

The smooth caress against his edge,

The new arrays of greens and clover.


But somehow in the wind,

The torrid ebb and motion,

He seems to be oblivious

To the constant, quiet erosion.


And so the time, it passes,

Wearing down what was rugged.

He welcomes all the constant current

The warm, the cool, and shaken shudders.


The moment, not forever,

The water soon begins to dry

Until the rock is left alone,

Now he’s still and smoothed on every side.


And sitting there inside

This bed she must have made,

He stares into the far distant sky

And wonders if it will return his gaze.


Perhaps that’s what it was

When the strangest hand did take

Him up into the crisp, cool night air,

And toss him skipping into the lake. 


Its Priv’lage is Perfection

I envy the moon.
As I sit upon the shore
I watch the tide roll in and out
As if trading convalescent nature,
A pendulum status quo.

I cherish low tide
And I walk along the sand,
Edified by life once hidden
By heavily salted opaque waters,
Blocking the light between us.

But the moon decides,
Moving the ocean at whim
To find fulfillment while lonely.
Crouching beneath the far too distant stars,
It smiles at us and rotates.

Its splendor is strength.
Its priv’lage is perfection
And oh how I wish I were he,
The man in the moon who moves the oceans
And changes the tide at will.


Picture a graveyard,

Vacant, cold, dark.

The grass is damp.

The trees creek.

A casket is open,

Empty, dirty.

The wood is new.

You step down.

You have fallen in,

Tripped, sat, laid down.

The lid will close.

The hinge creaks.

Picture a casket,

Closed, sinking, black.

Inside is lonely.

Inside is cool.

Your eyes are open,

Blink, blink, staring.

You feel quite calm.

You’re cozy.

Your mind is still,

Unbothered, peace.

No one hears you.

No one sees.

Now walk out.

Were I Dust

Light the candle as a vestige;

Practices of the past,

Then I’ll turn the water,

Turn the dial,

Pull the track.

Naked, the way I came, alone,

I’ll step into the tub,

Drops across my shoulders,

In my hair,

Off my thumbs.

The air growing humid and thick

Flows in my lungs ‘til full,

Covering the mirror,

White as fog,

Soft and dull.

The cold will press against me then

As I lay myself down,

Erasing memory,

Slowly fade,

Not a sound.

While lying there with beading drips

I’ll push it out from life;

The somber thoughts of pasts,

The ego,

Ev’ry strife.

And bit by bit she’ll take me down,

Like seas upon the sands,

I will be eroded,

Gone away,

Just as planned.

We Don’t Define Us

First, there was nothing,

A ball of energy thrust into a shell,

Creation of the proverbial “I.”

A being made commonplace. A being made.

His energy, now knowledge presumed,

Cascades him through a rugged landscape.

Man, he calls himself,

Not knowing the extent of the brand,

Or the struggles of its definition.

Developing eyes, he wanders,

Trusting in the power of his arm

To comfort the weakness of his stomach.

Like a convalescing soldier

He gains prowess and cunning,

His energy now learning.

Man fights the cold, the hurt,

Tries to define the unknown, and then

Weighs existentialism and a thing called God

His movements now calculated,

Demonstrated to the most high,

With paradoxical reasoning, created.

Not understanding the stars,

His God changes and stays the same,

Displaying implausible deniability or the devil.

And no-one cares.

Happy Veteran’s Day

It’s perhaps the only sacred cow in America. To touch it is taboo, rendering any speaker against it a social pariah, an anathema, an outcast. Further still, we celebrate it yearly—with no outlet given to voices that would qualm with its holiness. We praise it daily as the one thing that keeps the United States alive and well—the one thing that keeps us safe. Though we may be referred to as the world’s “melting pot,” there is no mistake that one deity is universally worshipped within every territory and state of our great nation. America’s God is Annan, Anhur and Laran, Ares, Kū and Belus, Bellona, Anat and Bugid Y Aiba; America’s god is War.

In an advanced—some would even say civilized—society, we continue to make violence our number one export. It is the way we deal with dissent. It is the way we deal with misunderstanding. It is our only foreign policy. Perhaps I am alone in asking why—ashamed that after hundreds of years as an established nation and decades as a world super-power, not only have we not found peaceful ways to thwart conflict, but we celebrate that fact.

And Now, a Poem


An Eloquent Distraction

Are you out there,

Beyond the mist and the fog,

Beyond the clutter and the noise,

Beyond the grind and the habit and obigations?

Were it empty,

Would I see you or hear you?

Would I know you or feel you then?

Would I touch you or listen to your supplications?


Our home is tainted and worn,

Causing blindness in brightest day,

Impeding sight with menial intricacies.