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Jon Corelis Poem
In a meadow by the hill I saw my love lying there;
in a meadow by the hill, he was there;
in a meadow by the hill I saw my love lying there,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!
O my love, never leave me but remain, but remain;
O my love, never leave me, but remain:
for if you ever leave me I will never love again,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!
No, I will never leave you but remain, but remain;
while the meadow blooms in flowers, I'll remain:
while the deer is in the forest and the sun burns in the sky,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!
In the meadow by the hill he remains, he remains;
while the meadow blooms in flowers, he remains:
while the deer is in the forest and the sun burns in the sky,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!
Oh I am very pretty with my hair all in a braid,
with my hair all in a braid, hanging down:
oh I am very pretty with my hair all in a braid,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
OMG, this, chat,
IMHO.
OTOH, YMMV.
AITA?
FAFO, LOL!
GTG, TTYL.
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2026
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Jon Corelis Poem
Je meurs de seuf auprés de la fontaine ...
I die of thirst beside the fountainhead,
and am least seen where most I am displayed.
Shadows are my substance. I am paid
in ghostly coin to counterfeit the dead.
Under a sagging sky, my dreams are fed
on winds blown far from lands where time has ceased,
in which alone still lives a present, pieced
together from the leavings of instead.
Where most my strength is needed, force has fled,
and those I’ve aided offer me no aid,
and wanting’s self is caged by having, weighed
down hopelessly in place by wings of lead.
Where most I hunger, I am nourished least,
a silent specter famished at the feast.
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
i
We’re all different.
Must be something.
ii
Cut off your finger:
you’re still there.
iii
Alive: breath.
Dead: gone.
Do the arithmetic.
iv
Man hides behind a rock.
Bird sees him.
v
No reason then
shouldn’t be now.
vi
For something to vanish
it has to exist.
vii
Einstein's soul:
Does the train move
or does the track?
viii
A number carries a forever:
why not a body?
ix
Pleasure, anger fade:
love, hate, don’t.
What are you?
x
Assume it:
see what happens.
xi
Music lives when it dies.
What about us?
xii
We’re all the same.
Must be something.
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
As I walked out in the streets of Manteca,
as I walked out in Manteca one day,
I spied a young cowboy asleep on the sidewalk,
when prodded from slumber these words he did say:
"You are wearing a Stetson, spurs, chaps, and a six-gun:
I assume then you must be a cowboy like me;
come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
then try to guess which shell is hiding the pea.
'Twas once in the saddle I used to ride gaily,
albeit I had not a horse to my name,
but down in the basement my dad had a saw-horse,
so I rode a steed that could never go lame.
O bury me holding a King and five Aces
with a pint of good whiskey to keep my corpse warm,
and a pair of my custom made dice in my watch fob,
for I'm a young cowboy and I've bought the farm."
Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
Never freak out when everything goes wrong:
that won’t last long.
Don’t strut your stuff when you’ve raked in a hefty pot:
you’re not so hot.
Whether your life has been a living hell
that Dante couldn’t tell,
or if you’ve basked in the best of everything
the world can bring,
life’s a balancing act. I’ll tell you why:
you’re going to die,
like it or not, so you might as well have fun
before you’re done.
Sip the champagne, buy paintings, sail a yacht,
spend what you’ve got.
Every clock is a time bomb: there’s no way to know
when it will blow.
The mint DeLorean, the Pacific Heights flat,
even your pedigreed cat,
it all ends up, whatever you did,
with your slacker kid.
The trust fund brat and the boy who grew up in a dump
hold hands and jump
into the pit we’re herded toward like cattle.
You hear that rattle?
The gods are shaking your dice: the next sunrise
may be snake eyes.
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
Soul, my soul, don’t let them break you,
all these troubles. Never yield:
though their force is overwhelming,
up! attack them shield to shield,
nor victorious rise exalted,
vaunting you can never fall,
nor defeated lie in endless
grieving, as if loss were all.
Take the joy and bear the sorrow,
looking past your hopes and fears:
learn to recognize the measured
dance that orders all our years.
-- translated from the Greek
Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
Some celebrate the beauty
of knights, or infantry,
or billowing flotillas
at battle on the sea.
Warfare has its glory,
but I place far above
these military splendors
the one thing that you love.
For proof of this contention
examine history:
we all remember Helen,
who left her family,
her child, and royal husband,
to take a stranger's hand:
her beauty had no equal,
but bowed to love's command.
As love then is the power
that none can disobey,
so too my thoughts must follow
my darling far away:
the sparkle of her laughter
would give me greater joy
than all the bronze-clad heroes
who fought it out at Troy
-- from the Greek
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
O who will sing that rudderless ship
that has lost her destiny?
With her sails in rags
and her lines in snags,
-- the Ship of the Dead is free!
The captain lies in a coma,
his hands clutch helplessly,
and the shantyman chokes
and wheezes and croaks:
-- the Ship of the Dead is free!
The crew are extict and jolly,
they gnaw themselves hungrily,
and their black lips grin
as the rigor sets in:
-- the Ship of the Dead is free!
The pilot has smashed the compass,
and tramples the sextant with glee:
he erases the log
and steers by the fog;
-- the Ship of the Dead is free!
O the skeleton climbs the rigging;
his sockets scan the sea,
and he cries to the crew:
No land in view!
-- the Ship of the Dead is free!
Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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Jon Corelis Poem
Though I’ve always known that the light of the past was something
recognized, it’s only now I see
that the light of the past is the light of dreams: the light
in which things happen forever, where every laugh
retains the dew of a universe caught at dawn,
where the pride of the wounded heart renews its song
in an endless bloom of instants, and where the loves
we knew then inexhaustibly still live.
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Copyright © Jon Corelis | Year Posted 2025
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