Through an induced coma I felt her presence. She stood to the left of me in all her honor, with Christ’s glory. Her touch was mild and warm. Loving. There appeared with her a warm glow, a kind of light. Me, flat on my back – An iron lung you might say. And still, I…
A State of Occupation
A State of Occupation © 2018 Foreigners, dwelling upon the muddy earth, hopes are waning far behind the promises for a better tomorrow…sinking, always sinking, into the abyss of each failing poem trampled into the mud-spattered ground. Everyone has a future to write upon the dirty pages of history’s dawn. Contorted faces and hungry eyes,…
A Message to my Wife
A Message to my Wife John G Evans © 2017 You know, when we have our long talks about trauma, I can’t stand myself. Why? I don’t know, except that I hated living a regimented life. As if all this shit was not enough, and for some nature verses nurture kind of reason, I followed…
Sonnet V
Since early youth I have quantified the measure of a man seeking a distance between firearms and steely blades with an inborn sense…thinking – always thinking…and coveting a longing for the end of my humanity factor. Metaphor for metaphor, and regarding a severe ruminating ideation where poetry dwells upon a dangerous past. Yes, my wounds…
Sonnet III
So, from where am I from? Why, this preamble of my life lost to the tribal wars of schemes and dreams, forever hidden in enmity and possibilities. Enigmatic, per se? why, yes - I state! Here upon the hills of the north, facing twilight days, and burnt orange sunsets, my birth surprises me once more,…
Sonnet II
I write as the north wind chills a January air, early dawn as the sun does rise in the eastern gates and a Rocky Mountain fair, my soul carries a remembrance of the earthly pond during the terrain’s commencements – and, a trauma dream, hidden in a haze of fiery schemes. The epoch of years…
Sonnet IV
I am the warrior by word who brings peace to regions of the desolate, barren, and hopeless. Always, living on the doorsteps of death, I managed to survive, even as an infant, premature with all my dogmatic faith, I stood to tell the myth of how I survived. Based upon the fear of a machismo…
The Weight of the Morning Dew Yields a Fertile Fruit Upon the Earth
“A bit of weakness in metaphor is enough for tomorrow for the berries to ripen on the fence, and for the sword to break beneath the dew.” Upon reading Mahmoud Darwish & The Zohar – 1st Volume. The crucible sword falls by the weight of the morning dew, As the love of a rose draws…
Thoughts Before Early Morning Coffee
Thoughts before early morning coffee It’s 4:00 a.m. as I peer through my kitchen window beckoning a smile from my beloved bonsais. A blanket of snow covers the ground as I think back to a memory re-call. Trauma – I say, is a four - year old boy devastated through the rupture of the hymen…
The Tiny Mustard Seed
So, where is home? Home is where the dust cries In a foreign land Where we shall come to know the bitterness of exile. And yet, where is this home? It is inside the mustard seed Where only the dying can see – If we are to poeticize these inkwells With an altruistic art, We…
John G Evans & Paavo Oso Arts 