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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

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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