Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

Invisible clouds,                                                                                                                                       
their itinerant shadings                                                                                                                          
roaming peak to peak                                                                                                                       
along Sandwich Range,

etch a burnished fall chorus                                                                                                                  
of moaning tree fronds,

first on Rattlesnake,                                                                                                                                
later silhouetting shore pines                                                                                                              
till all is blended

in a portrait of                                                                                                                                         
irrefutable stature                                                                                                                                  
and opalescence.

x ept 2 myself

x ept 0 listening

x ept I am.

The doorbell’s ringing.                                                                                                                           
Fumbling to put my shorts on                                                                                                              
I pull a Gerald Ford.

Seed pods draped in a yellow glen,                                                                                                      
motionless in essence,                                                                                                                            
an odd autumnal chartreuse,                                                                                                                
swim in the breeze for a moment,                                                                                                        
silhouetted by ecru lichen,                                                                                                                   
then settle down to wait out                                                                                                                  
my disarray, hovering,                                                                                                                       
giving back.

Putt-putts in slo-mo.                                                                                                                               
No more land line. Loons calling.                                                                                                         
The red sun rolls south.

As puppies reach                                                                                                                                      
eight weeks of age,                                                                                                                                   
they grow expert                                                                                                                                       
at rattling cage.

They snarl and fight                                                                                                                                
and whine and bark,                                                                                                                                
to cuddle them                                                                                                                                          
seems off the mark.

Soon earnest folks                                                                                                                                    
line up to buy,                                                                                                                                           
pay through the nose                                                                                                                               
I wonder why.

My wife will cry                                                                                                                                        
as each one goes.                                                                                                                                      
The smells too die                                                                                                                                    
like a rose.

How subtle of that Indian
surgeon from Indiana
on the Rhine in December

not only to dissect the
occult humor lurking in
my e-mail address

but also to jostle me
in the common room
with a capacious bear hug

within earshot of Irina,
our eastern European chambermaid,

acknowledged earlier in the cruise
for her own subtle creativity
involving thong skits

on the heels of the Captain’s rendition
of “Edelweiss” without irony.

Life-boat drills were rubbish, he intoned,
fiction from Brussels.
We could all save ourselves from drowning
merely by ascending to the top deck,
so shallow was this river.

Red raspberries served up                                                                                                                     
on angel food cake

soaking in cassis                                                                                                                                       
kind, like a lake

soaking in cassis                                                                                                                                       
yes, for love’s sake.

Three black oaks silent.                                                                                                                          
White light snakes across the lake,                                                                                                      
accosting my soul.

Dice-K on target,
twirling six and two-thirds innings
of huge two-hit ball.