Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

Silvery cloud banks                                                                                                                                  
steal in from the north at dusk,                                                                                                             
eating blue mountains.                                                                                                                           
Only the tree line remains—                                                                                                                  
across the lake, wavering.

What have I got against wisterias,                                                                                                        
hacking away at them                                                                                                                             
as they curl around the corner                                                                                                           
find the downspout                                                                                                                               
and ascend skyward,                                                                                                                               
leaving brown curlicues                                                                                                                          
to dangle from the shutters                                                                                                                    
when the leaves fall                                                                                                                                 
and snow collects my mind?

Vultures! Come on down!
Sun-struck, thirsty, I survey
the purple mesa.
Peck my tender hard-on first!
Quivering maidens turn your heads!

Swiftly I shrivel…                                                                                                                                     
an anthill towers over                                                                                                                             
my wretched shanty.

On Welch Island my                                                                                                                                
dad and Uncle Gordon                                                                                                                            
used to move rocks with a crowbar,                                                                                                     
sweating like white bulls.

Mom and Aunt Jane                                                                                                                         
would smoke and fret and                                                                                                                      
keep an eye out for heart attacks.

That was in the sixties before                                                                                                               
the EPA and Bruce Springsteen                                                                                                           
burst on the scene.                                                                                                                                  
I-93 was new to the Granite State                                                                                                       
and tents were made of canvas.

The unutterable golden lattice                                                                                                           
of Bethy’s new swimsuit                                                                                                                         
failed to conceal her dark triangle,                                                                                                       
and me and her cousin John                                                                                                                
paid tribute for hours,                                                                                                                             
swimming circles around her July                                                                                                      
scissor kick.

Is this a lull in my life? Why is it that lulls are so suspect?

Why isn’t lullology an occupation? You’re pre-law, I’m pre-lull.

Is it that lulls don’t last? But life doesn’t last either, physical life that is. Maybe lulls do last and we just forget they’re there. Or maybe they get shouted down by mayhem or envy or conundrums or conniptions or chapters or sagas or howls.

We have peace activists. Why not lull activists?

I’m a lull bull. I’m pro-lull, I’m bullish on lulls. I’m sending a buy signal. There’s a lulu of a bull market out there for lulls. I see a lull gusher.

I know what you’re thinking. Lulls are the next bubble. You don’t want to burst my lull.

Don’t worry. I’m just a simple man from the land of lulls. I love simple words. They’re quieter. I take a dim view of “lullasticism” and “prefrontal lullotomy.” Even “unilull” puts me on edge. It sounds too complicated.

All you need is lull.

Just how deep will my knuckles                                                                                                          
sink into                                                                                                                                                    
this luscious May loam

up to the elbows                                                                                                                                      
it seems for a moment                                                                                                                           
as I cantilever my frame

over the impatiens                                                                                                                                  
bed mudding in                                                                                                                                        
fiery red seedlings.

Is the Statue of Liberty
a person of size?
Aren’t we all of us symbols
of Boston Cream pies?
My girlfriend Cheryl
is as big as a house.
She sat on me Thursday
said I was a louse.

All that’s left is a crater
where I used to be,
in the Home of the Brave
and the Land of the Free.

Her foundation garments
reach deep in the Earth.
Dig deeper still
and you’ll find my self-worth.
My life blood’s recorded
in veins of rose quartz.
Dig deeper still
and you’ll spot my old shorts.

All that’s left is a crater
of what we could be,                                                                                                                                 in the Home of the Brave
and the Land of the Free.

Well an asteroid landed
on old Yucatan,
sent the dinosaurs flying
and made a new plan.
Those heavenly bodies
can sure melt the ice.
Send the mastodons packing
and make room for Christ.

May God’s love fill the crater                                                                                                               O say can you see,
in the Home of the Brave
and the Land of the Free.

Even before I know
she’s playing
Beethoven

I’m quick to notice
how it all sounds
best open-eyed.

Better to watch
her shiny black high heels
cavort on their tiny stilts,
guested by time
and the cadences of God.

The joys of the four of us,                                                                                                                       
of running barefoot up                                                                                                                            
our smooth deserted street                                                                                                                    
one cool morning in high summer                                                                                                       
under the towering green trees                                                                                                             
the city hums below us,                                                                                                                      
of to this day                                                                                                                                             
coming back to this place                                                                                                                       
no matter the season                                                                                                                               
no matter the age                                                                                                                                     
no matter the glory,                                                                                                                           
and of loving coming back.