Tag Archives: J. R. Solonche

J. R. Solonche

The House to Myself This Afternoon

The house to myself this afternoon,
I could go upstairs and lie on my back
in the spare room, on the sofa, my head
on two or three pillows, my legs folded up
with somebody’s book on my knees,
in the sun from my chest up, the book
between the sun and the window shadow,
turning the pages from dark to light,
from light to dark again, the poems passing
thus between my hands from light to dark,
from dark to light, and I could lie there
for two hours or for three hours until the sun
passed altogether out of the window and I was
chest up in cold shadow, but I have done that
already, and it served its purpose,
which was to ease the pain of life, which was
to make death, for two hours or for three hours,
seem no more than a passing of one page
into another page, an easing from light into dark,
from dark into light, a leaving, so I must think
of something else I could do, something other
than this that will likewise serve its purpose,
that will likewise be a passing of a page into a page,
that will likewise be an easing from light to dark
to light, that will likewise be a leaving, a leaving.

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is the author of six poetry collections.

J. R. Solonche

The Pine Two-by-Four

The pine two-by-four,
now newly sawn
exactly by the carpenter,
smells exactly like a newborn.

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines since the ’70s and is the author of six poetry collections.

 

 

J. R. Solonche

Wild Turkeys

Like dirty oil
from an old

truck, the wild
turkeys leak

out of the woods
and across the road,

black drop, by black
drop, by black drop.

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is author of six poetry collections.

J. R. Solonche

The Lake in the Rain

The lake in the rain
remembers when
it was the rain
and quietly cries
in the depth of its sleep,
which, if you carefully listen,
sounds like rain on a lake.

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is author of six poetry collections.

J. R. Solonche

Summer Is Nearly Done

Summer is nearly done,
fall almost begun,
which I know
because I hear the birds
talking among themselves,
and the insects whisper,
with shriller wings,
their warnings.

J.R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is the is author of seven books of poetry.

J. R. Solonche

On a Bee

The best poem
ever written
on a bee
is by Emily Dickinson,
so why are you
wasting your time
reading this one?

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is the author of six books of poetry.

J. R. Solonche

5 O’Clock, 5 Bourbons, 5 Women

It doesn’t mean
a damn thing,

but it is a great
title isn’t it?

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is author of six poetry collections.

J. R. Solonche

One Word

One word leads
to another,

and perhaps someday
I’ll find out which.

J. R. Solonche, who has been publishing since the early 70s, is author of six books of poetry, coauthor of one, and author of one chapbook,