Each day, each night, upon the southern island that reaches out to the Gulf of Mexico, the clapboard beach houses raise their tunes of flying fish, slapping hard upon the water’s edge. I was two, perhaps, younger. My memory slips into a time of a golden astonishment, white sand that stings as a round, translucent…
Reading Rita Dove at Sunrise
Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully as Paavo Oso and his art, staring impassive to his muse, what shall ruminating speak this time? Seven A.M. The canvas still clean. Once upon a time… he felt the lascivious rage within his rags, threads reaching to the sky…
Reading Rita Dove at Midnight
Life, never what it appears to be unless one is a poet. I think of you, as I dig deeply into your metaphors, and the communities of the marginalized, the early morning freeze, deadens my fingertips upon this black, icy laptop, frozen as if dead. Your words, alive with the perfume of truth. I learn…
Updated Poem
Upon the Cusp of Blackness’ Ride John Gregory Evans © 5/9/2020 12:01:04 PM Upon the cusp of blackness, we stare, I see a hope clinging to the everywhere, religiosity is an interior pull of white corpses walking, without purpose but to be saved through the mechanized wheel of traveldom, your misfortune, where dead bodies aspire…
John G Evans & Paavo Oso Arts 