Reading Rilke’s Book of Hours Upon Awakening During an Early Morning Freeze

Your poetry begets music, but only to the poor. The poor hear each note of hunger upon their wanderings; whether city, or fields, or highways off the desert roads, the poor shall always hear these tattered tunes laying threadbare, frayed at the heel of existence. Your Russian journeys lead you to God, unbeknownst, an intimate…

Reading Rita Dove’s Boccaccio: The Plague Years

Each day, each night, upon the southern island that reaches out to the Gulf of Mexico, the clapboard beach houses raise their tunes of flying fish, slapping hard upon the water’s edge. I was two, perhaps, younger. My memory slips into a time of a golden astonishment, white sand that stings as a round, translucent…

Reading Rita Dove at Sunrise

Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully as Paavo Oso and his art, staring impassive to his muse, what shall ruminating speak this time?                                                             Seven A.M. The canvas still clean. Once upon a time… he felt the lascivious rage within his rags, threads reaching to the sky…

A Favorite Poem of Mine

I very fortunately had  my manuscript edited by a PhD Poetic Scholar named Annie Finch where we worked for several months exchanging thoughts, ideas, and the art of language into a small book of poetic compositions, poems I had discerned the writing hereof from experiences from a Bavarian experience, life in the military, and a…

A Quiet Manifestation of Love

I have discovered the perennial wisdom of women supersedes all I learned thus far into deeper places within my heart and soul. In fact, I lay witness to women as my guiding light to Christ and the holiness of the Divine within me. My experience with the Voice at age fifteen (a woman’s voice), loud…

A Heart with Many Rooms

From the heart remain many rooms                         As lightning fingers from God Singing different melodies                         For love unearned, I cannot explain, nor comprehend its depths, But as I feel, I know Of many hearts along the way                         A separate happiness each note shall play. Please, speak to the eyes            …

Fragmented

Fragments of broken glass             this room’s dimensional windows a stone’s throw away, living on the edge too long.                                                             Silence dances in darkness through an altered state. voices, a regimented life!             Toy soldiers living not in dreams but regimes.                                                             I stand, inhaling plumes amid cumulous vapors             an air sifting…

Silver Love Poured Tea

Silver Love Poured Tea by John Gregory Evans © 5/17/2020 3:12:52 AM Your smile, breathless, Ponderosa Pines harvested your voice, Kisses that shed an earthly attire, While Sleeper’s and Pullman’s steal the night, yet Silver love poured tea. The moon breathed deep tonight, Stars gathered Inebriated by the broken silence, Only the darkness smiled! Silver…

Walking Alone in ’81

Walking Alone in ‘81 by John Gregory Evans © 5/17/2020 2:53:22 AM How many rides, were you offered today? Met a stranger with a heart full of compassion? One I’d say, but, other than that It just ain’t happening! These foreign guests within an illusory homeland of hope? Was there one who lifted you in…

Blood Rain

Blood Rain by John Gregory Evans © 5/17/2020 1:58:19 AM Rhythmic seasons arrive by way of violent crimes from within the darkness, as we digest encounters with black and bloody sinuous renegades, of branch and vine. Tiny minnows and tad-poles thirst upon a solitary descent of a complacent pain, as dragonflies carve out their stellar…