Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

John Maynard Keynes
at a one-ton table
of shiny rock maple
made us all more stable.

Follow the stream bed
I said to the heron.
Curve your way through
the green hemlock and pine.

A widening of waters
awaits your blue longing,
a meadow of larkspur–
sail there, it’s time.

I like the white shoulders
of the new highway,
their graveled lean,
the clean unbroken margin of asphalt
as yet uncracked by frost,
wet from an evening rain in fact
that hisses when cars pass.

They crunch ever so slightly underfoot
until my yellow Stohlquist slicker gets hot
and the sun breaks through and sets
without my head.

Bumper to bumper
a shiny cortege
for a much-loved neighbor
parks out front
on a dangerous curve,
stretching as far
as the eye can see,
disgorging mourners
on the shoulder
and crushing my daylilies.

The soul is a spark
from God knows where
so long given up
by some it’s fair

to say keep it simple
and pray for the lost
that all in time
know Pentecost

that all may see
how suffering starts,
the years of lies
we tell our hearts.

Nelly circles in uncut grass,
readying her daily deposit.

A June student hastens past,
her pace quickening.

With nowhere to hide
we all smell the chemistry of now.

Out on some island
a barking dog is sensing
faraway intruders.

Waving both my arms
to keep all the bugs away
I get a lungful.

You have a long life ahead of you I said,
with twists you would never guess at.
Just look back a few
and you will see this truth plainly.

You have the power
to be kind to yourself I said,
before the skin slid off my back,
gracefully.

Abundant redbud
soon to be lost in green woods,
like April’s panties.