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Greg Evans Poem
If I met God in a snow-kissed wood,
Would he sit beside the fire’s warm glow,
And share my wine and quail egg soup,
And marvel at the falling snow.
And speak of truths I’ve overlooked,
But listen without a tilted head,
Beneath a canopy of linty pines,
With two bellies fully fed.
Now he would think it rather odd,
This battered man in tattered shoes,
In a chilly wood with notebook and quill,
With nothing more, but my dreams to lose.
Not once would he pray or sing a hymn,
Nor surmise a confession, my list of woes,
Nor wish for a thawed breeze to hie,
Nor ponder the direction longing goes.
Nor criticize my fondness of another’s bride,
Like the full moon married to the night,
Thus only spy but never reach,
To her golden shores of Leyte.
Then God would stand and tip his cap,
Without a final word would go,
And wander off into the dark,
So I might marvel at the falling snow.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
I sip my wine in the purple shadows of the evening, where the fireflies flicker like lanterns on an ancient river. The moonlight dances upon the ripples in my glass and its there I see eternity in the songs of an old traveler. That weary man is I, alone on this balmy dream. Forever a traveling leaf on a winding stream. Forever a thought that once viewed such a beautiful night. In a place like this, where mountains touch the sky.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2017
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Greg Evans Poem
He had no teeth and neither did his girlfriend.
We’d sit in his apartment in the dark drinking margaritas and watch Jeopardy.
He’d answer every question correctly and his girlfriend would cackle.
He’d shoot at the mice with a pellet gun as they scurried in the shadows.
He rarely missed.
Their heads would explode and I would feel queasy.
Then he’d turn back to the TV leaving the brains splattered on the floor and wall.
We’d stay up all night talking and drinking.
He’d stand out front of the building in the snow in slippers always laughing.
He was always laughing.
Even after I moved 3,000 miles away I’d call him up to talk over the phone he’d tell outrageous stories always laughing.
Sometimes those people that are hurting the most laugh the hardest.
He had no one in the world.
His girlfriend and myself, we were his family.
I figured when he someday died his body would simply turn into a skeleton in his apartment.
And he’d still be laughing.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
Allow yourself to be taught,
And with that knowledge plant a seed.
Let it grow so you may harvest a dream.
And another and another like fruit from a tree.
And let yourself catch a wind,
And sail should there be water to float,
And with that knowledge navigate the stars.
To reach the dream sails full of hope.
And never be still should disappointment come,
A windless sky for a while might be,
When all seems lost and nothing is.
Knowledge makes waves in a calm sea.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
I found comfort in hope, a raw reality in regret.
And lost my way in the game of life, all my chips in on a bet.
I stared at an amaranthine desert that stretched out to the sky, and so I traveled far and wide, always questioning why?
The familiar cacophony of a nostalgic city in an apartment with my mice.
An old man in my reflection, I had to glance at it twice.
To the trickling Indian streams beneath the limbs of a maple cross, a stillness that reminded me of everything I lost.
I loved a married woman once, a home with someone else she built.
And I stood in a thunderous rain, to wash away the guilt.
And so falling ill, languished in death’s bed void of air.
I heard music in the placement of words, poetry so fair.
And in poetry discovered an ocean that spanned beyond my thoughts.
Reached out with a pen and pad, for words that might be caught.
With beautiful glass waves, dormant mysteries, scarlet sunsets and blushing dawns, featureless calms and humility, it all so gracefully drawn.
Exquisite creatures below and above, I sketched with words and wonder.
All tangled amongst an infinite collection of the memories of a thousand years of maunder.
On a road I went, without direction so it seems.
To where a language I’ve never heard produced colors in my dreams.
To wander amongst barn-red tulips and Hawaiian blue irises, Moroccan green mint, alone and happy, as an undisturbed lake.
Sometimes the most beautiful things happen by mistake.
And to find one’s way with patience, seems a mighty feat.
And when stronger more the hunger for love than the pangs to eat.
To a view that takes away, the very breath of the wind.
And worry more for that we might believe then what is around the bend.
To catch a glimpse of God in a Brazilian slum, who gently waters a lone flower as if nurturing a newborn son.
The wine in my glass the color of her lips, humming a familiar song.
As she prepares a weary traveler a nice warm bed to long.
And sit and watch a farmer’s field slowly grow from the house on stilts.
Painted upon a canvas, one that never wilts.
Old miners rest and sip coffee, together with swollen feet.
Wishing for mine that only ache, quietly they speak.
On a road I wander on, blisters on my heels.
Love is not what the mind thinks, but what the heart feels.
And desire is only that where possibility is not a crutch.
And late in the night under a giant glowing moon, had I reached out I might have touched.
On a road.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
I saw her speaking but only heard music.
And wondered of the sanity of love, whatever it is that love might be.
I heard Mozart’s violin concerto number three.
I heard her speaking it to me.
The Adagio, like the rhythmic tides in a ternary form at eventide on the rocky shores of the Hudson.
Such is the splendid D major as the crickets play one octave higher with the wind playing an A major.
I hum in A sharp and the fog horn in the distance a forlorn B minor.
The wine works quickly, tempers the mood.
Too drunk to write so we sing. Too tired to dream so we think. To weary to wish so we wander.
Lest the moon forgets to show us the way, we will set up camp beneath a bench staring up at the wild Verona sky like so many years ago.
Her jet black hair has purple hues in the moonlight.
Her red lips yearning in the chill of an autumn morning. Many years ago.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
There is no moon tonight.
Wine fills me with melancholy.
Movement of boats on the Seine soothe me like choral music.
Illuminated torches excite nostalgia.
The sound of an Aurignacian flute can be heard down the boulevard, or maybe only the glint of a memory.
Worn feet ache.
Tired lines tell the story of a life of curiosity in a weary smile.
An old woman knits.
She wears a faded pink shawl to cover her years.
Flour from the morning’s baking lightly coats her wooden shoes.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
The truth has always lay behind the lens,
Despite how the words of a conflict may twist and bend.
Bullets fly and shells shatter the earth and youth,
Tear at flesh and souls and try for the truth.
To tell a story, as writ by action,
And recorded in frames, under fire, an austere reaction.
Before opinion, before judgement, explanation or denial.
And lest the world take notice if only for a while.
Enough to make, some good of ill,
Whether be one child, or a city you can fill.
An eye for slices of humanity in the chaos of war,
The silent photographs, like a lion’s roar.
The compassionate soul, will not in mortal life wake,
And to die, on a stage of violence, will make.
The world see there are wrongs left to right,
And following the horrors of a day, can be a peaceful night.
And when the smoke clears, the truth has always lay behind the lens,
It did then and it will again...and again...and again...
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
The sun rose early today.
Chilly air makes me miss her.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee along the Herrengasse brings me to rise.
My head aches from last night’s wine.
The street is quiet like autumn.
A sharp breeze makes me think of loneliness.
A horse-drawn carriage echoes as an old man with a tired beard sips a coffee.
The steam rises from the porcelain cup and gets caught under the brim of his burgundy Tyrolean hat.
He sits alone in the cafe and writes about love.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Evans Poem
On this warm Spring evening I bathe in cool moonlight.
I cherish these quiet nights.
Listening to the chiming twinkling of the forgotten stars.
Copyright © Greg Evans | Year Posted 2020
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