Details |
Jonathon Paarlberg Poem
She walks away.
Girlish and glorious
laughter
floats
through air
like a kite on a string
that pulls
tautly slipping through tightened fingers,
burning a little,
and slicing through
if ever left unattended,
so preciously tensioned
against the cold
benumbing
wind.
Tears begin to flow
but I do not know . . .
my heart?
or the wind?
If my heart, then am I sad
to be here on the ground
or joyful
to be watching the kite
fly?
In answer, a quivering.
A wisp.
"She will not fall or float away while I hold her thus.
She will be beautiful for me."
Wondrous.
Copyright © Jonathon Paarlberg | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Jonathon Paarlberg Poem
Through them one can see an ocean.
Her ocean.
It's there beyond.
Beyond the stars.
The stars in her eyes.
Upon her sea there are no boats.
If you wade too far, there is no hope
of rescue.
Still where her beaches are,
there's warm soft sand.
For her to walk.
Peaceful and calm.
Save the gentle breeze tickling her arm.
Save the calls of the sea gulls.
She holds some wet stones
cupped
in her left hand.
Shiny and sparkling.
But, not
always
beautiful.
Not always smooth
and soothing
to touch.
She contemplates each in turn.
Her collection.
Then
she gazes out upon the ocean and above it to the stars.
The stars beyond.
And so,
they are reflected there.
Forever reflected there
in her eyes.
Copyright © Jonathon Paarlberg | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Jonathon Paarlberg Poem
K through Twelve,
it's called.
Students and teachers
walk the halls.
From beginning to end
behaving like they should
Or else. . .
One knows that
the attic is filled with cobwebs,
of course,
and dusty musty old textbooks
discarded lessons and copies
of one's grade reports.
But the basement . . .
One knows
there's a cave below the boiler room
filled with old projects and paraphernalia.
A tomb lined with damaged models:
plastic skulls,
plastic brains,
and plastic hearts.
An abandoned asylum for the malformed and the maladjusted,
the deformed and the defective.
Stalactites drip growing steadily down,
glowing and sparkling
oblivious.
The floor is soft and powdery, damp cold
decades of ashes and dust
where one lands when one falls.
Strange crystalline music of dark nested spheres
repeats.
If one is able and
not wholly broken then
one may wander through,
past the poor wretches
who line one's way . . .
If one can wonder or wander at all
after one's fall
then one reaches the mouth of the tunnel and crawls
up
to a barn door in the wall.
A light shines through there
where
one may stare
and beyond others' noises echo busy
buzzy
cheer??
Once opened, it reveals the shopping mall
where graduates sell Their wares.
"Free dessert" is being given away.
Dutch apple pie of several varieties,
some sugar free and some without fat.
If one buys that.
A celebration seems
to be in the air
Halloween, it seems,
and behind scenes
the revelers come near.
From the cave and dark dungeon they parade
in masquerade.
Singing in unison.
Coming forth, as one,
to get their share.
Copyright © Jonathon Paarlberg | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Jonathon Paarlberg Poem
Gazing through a hazy window.
The scene outside,
it was great and gnarled.
That tree . . .
It's own canopy of shiny red leaves
shading meandering roots
and the wet green grass
that grew between and about them.
Grand tree.
Beheld, for a moment,
like white wine
lingering on my tongue.
The glistening grass.
The shimmering leaves.
The misty glass.
But then I saw it.
Reflection, or apparition?!
In the corner of my eye,
I caught it sneaking glances.
Copyright © Jonathon Paarlberg | Year Posted 2009
|
Details |
Jonathon Paarlberg Poem
Little girl goes down to the water.
Little girl climbs up the hill.
Little girl wanders in the woods.
Little girl collects little things.
Creatures and curiosities.
Puts them in her pockets.
Skipping and running and playing at hunting.
Now and then she stops, and rests.
Her every heartbeat,
her every breath,
conspires with the fragrant moist air,
the rocks and the trees,
to forget her home.
There she waits before the sunset.
She waits as long as she can.
Oh, how precious is this place.
Her refuge.
To the sea and the hills. . .
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Copyright © Jonathon Paarlberg | Year Posted 2008
|