John Rouleau

Poetry

 

 

 

the magic of hearts

if we leave pieces behind

they take root and grow

 

*

 

hush of holy days

shattered by the sound of bombs

still the sparrow sings

 

*

 

The hordes are here

on this mid-December

evening to stoke the furnace

warn and old.

'Twasn't just a whiny California boy

claiming to be cold.

No! Twas true,

the ember

had grown dim to death

in this post-war dwelling.

Cheeks and toes

were quite in fact

a'turnin' blue

 

*

 

Objects

in the mirror

may be closer

than they appear.

Or further away,

as the case may be.

I remind myself

of these facts

each time

before I look

into a mirror.

 

Even so,

sometimes I am captured

in a mirror

quite by surprise

and unprepared.

In which case,

typically,

objects in the mirror

appear just

as they truly are.

 

*

 

at the railway station

rain begins to fall which

overnight will turn to snow

so the weatherman says

on cold steel rafters

hungry pigeons snuggle

in the shadows

not making a sound

I drop some crumbs

 

*

 

In this morning's

lovely silence

I heard the voice

of nature singing

to the drum beat

of my heart.

 

 

 

40 Whales

 

forty whales

alternately breaching

and diving, breaching

and diving, as though

pulling threads

across the fabric

of the sound