Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

Infinite God
of immensity.

Intimate God
of intensity.

Seeing-I God
of propensity.

On this day in eighteen-two
William Wordsworth took his cue.

Walking nigh to Ullswater Lake
Sister Dot said, “Need a break.”

Daffodils in rank profusion
set afire his elocution.

Five years hence he got it right—
the crowd, the host
of golden light.

I dreamt the cops
came looking for the dogs.
My wife was nowhere to be found.

I looked high and low.
They were getting impatient.

“Can I catch you later?”
I wish I’d thought to say.

I dreamt some tyrant
slowly crushed
a hero’s head
into the sand.

“Now you’re both grounded”
I wish I’d thought to say.

I dreamt a man with a chainsaw
told me to come with him.

“Sorry if I cut you off”
I wish I’d thought to say.

This guy in a nursing home
told me he beat Ford to the punch
but then the creep went and
stole his whole idea.

“History is bunk”
I wish I’d thought to say.

The Chins came back
from the HMO,
intoning “We betray you!”

“That’s the way
the cookie crumbles,”
I wish I’d thought to say.

She let my chainsaw be,
in the kitchen pantry,
all winter long.

Jimi’s solo on
“All Along the Watchtower”
makes one fine ringtone.

In ’67
Dylan held a neonate
in his pickin’ hand.

Hendrix howls how hey
Father Bob’s survived his crash
and planted flowers.

Irony’s orphans!
Princes keep the lonely view
that life is not a joke.

April Verch ladles
a polska from her fiddle,
agile in her flowery dress.

Bobbing and weaving
she spins dark tales of Sweden
and cheesy agents.

Cody thumps his bass.
Hayes’ axe chases after.
The Ottawa Valley firecracker’s
not just a pretty face.