Poetry By
John Schellhase
Published on: 5/5/2010
October '67
You visited the Pentagon with friends In turtlenecks and scarves. You wore a dress, And I, a uniform, starched stiff and pressed. That night I asked, "Is this okay?" "Depends. Do you believe means justify their ends?" I kissed you not to answer. I confess, I hardly understood you then. Now less. Though I know what I'd say if asked again. Pregnancy sobered us, and that was good. I only wish you'd had the chance to kiss, Just once, the brown, frail hair that crowned our son. I showed him your picture, think he understood, But can't be sure. It still stuns me: all this Because you put a flower in my gun.
Published on: 5/5/2010
Julie's Books
I hardly ever mark my books, though now and then I underline in pencil, quietly, as if tiptoeing through some sacred place, a garden, or an art museum. But when I borrow Julie's books her thoughts - in pen - parade the aisles like charismatics sputtering eternal truth in human words, inspired by some unseen god. She tells me not to read her notes, but they become a second plot that overwhelms the first. For me she is the central character, the climax, and the denouement.
Published on: 1/12/2010
Apologetic
To claim that being shaped for perfect love As shoes are made for feet Or parks as places lovers meet Demands there be a Source for it above Would also mean the window's wan rays must Stir yet unmoving motes; And still, bereft of light's warm notes, We would not see the beauty of mere dust.
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