Winter Light Among the River Wood

John Gregory Evans

12/27/2019 12:11:41 AM

The river dormant within her darkened depth, where

Trees stand high above within their communal sphere.

Skies at night display a luminous veil of cloud cover realities

That sift silently upon a frozen earth.

Upon Thoreau writing, “I love man with the same distinction that I love woman—as if my friend were of some third sex—some other or some stranger and still my friend.”

To love a man, as a woman loves a man, yet without the contentious form of labor, we shall all witness a divine fire in all things.

To love more deeply God, than any other deity.

Loving man imperative reaching the pinnacle of divine love, no more strife, war, or abandonment of life.

The quality of love is in a man’s heart. Deeper than any body part may ever reach. Deeper than the ocean’s great. Deeper than a lunar high. Deeper, than a thing called ‘I’.

Love of man pleases the divine we know as God, in a very special way shared by two, or another, and within that love we give, and give, without any contentious walls for a bias, whatsoever.

The life I love never forced but a love I freely accept.

Honoring Emily Dickinson

John Gregory Evans

12/26/2019 8:23:36 AM

[…] I had been hungry, all the Years—

My noon had Come to dine—

I trembling drew the Table near—

And touched the Curious Wine—[…] Emily Dickinson

Ah, the Curious Wine and trembling drew the Table to us near,

The only sinner I can find, are the ones who loathe Us here.

The Wise but Know the Secrets within,

Are the Ones who truly have not sinned.

For there remain a Truth in Absolutes

That bring our hearts together again.

Never has there been a biased heart

That loved themselves so near, apart,

My prayer to you is that within the Love

You find yourself in fires Divine,

That lead you to the Table here,

And drink her Love—thus, the Curious Wine!

This Fire to me that brings the Face of Christ,

Occurs upon the Lover not once, not twice, not even yet, thrice,

But in drawing His Table thus near our Hearts,

The un-believer threatened by his own trembling part,

Ne’er knowing This prayer lament, brings Love upon High—

We trust our Beloved in prayer and thought, ne’er wishing to tear and cry.

Whitman & Me

Whitman & Me

John Gregory Evans © 12/24/2019 9:56:47 AM

A troubadour, unshaven clean, and fedora leaned half-cocked upon his peak, prone to rumble with word and pen, like a modern – day slam, keen on wit with terms in cheek, his pen thus dipped, prepared his sheet of parchment gleamed.

Whitman with visionary pen in hand as he writes of sights, and smells, oh, the land! His quaint

smile and hands on a polemic hip trigger some to a violent core, but

Walt does more than hate.

To hear his voice, to view his air, a stature of morality, ne’er wound t’wards despair,

his shape and form with word and ink,

gentle eyes, an easy-going wink, composed in harmony, his fiery darts I’d share.

To brush your cheek during times when tears shall toil, composed as duos we shall stand,

but Walt just smiles with words upon lip, we walk together, hand in hand, walk these bridges man to man,

“I am with you,” dear Walt, “and I know how it is,” we cross the waters on Brooklyn Ferry, 

yes, Brooklyn at last! and “the sun half an hour high,” ebbtide.

and you with poetic scripture in hand, the transparent you, calm, wit and airy.

Her people, too, you were so fond to greet, helping a black man continue his journey.

I’d say, a daring yet honest feat, as you were known to sway, so many nights and so many days, I’d accompany you warm, keeping you with me, within your own way, yes! to sight and, to see.

To know a man and to love his soul, to worship his words, and to commit to him whole,

Man, to man, and soul to soul, the beauty of love is selfless you know.

Ne’er to impasse his throbbing soul, nor stand upon his grave-lit knoll, I’d honor his friendship I’ve aspired to have, Whitman to love, Whitman to know, our words we’ve sown, maturely grown.

Upon Reading Ovid’s Metamorphosis

~11~ 12/23/2019 5:03:29 AM

Upon reading Ovid’s, Metamorphosis, I sense there has been no change in man’s character since Ovid’s Silver Age of betrayal, not only to himself, but his Creator God, too. Sad! Mankind has for measure upon measure elicited more harm upon his neighbor, himself, the earth, and his Creator.

Metamorphosis does demonstrate mankind’s hostility towards one another, the implications are we shall all truly die a gruesome kind of death.

We shall not survive and inevitably all shall be exiled unto foreign lands.

Ovid’s book, upon his death in exile, may be (upon looking back to his death before the CE), suggest we may never return to God without a Christian’s perspective of redemption through a Savior.

Our (Christian’s Savior), of course, is Jesus Christ. With the Metamorphosis (as I read to 180), I witnessed in Ovid’s time redemption was not an option aside from prophecies, and the coming of a Messiah. Ovid, in my mind, did not know of Christ living during the CE.

A truly elegiac form and nature poetic composition that truly mankind should be aware of and be made aware to the public. As a result, poetry has her own redemptive qualities, as well.

John Gregory Evans

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~10~ 12/22/2019 8:12:58 AM

My prayers fall within the silent seas, quiet, twilight, prior, a red sky at night, I am in delight.

Mother, mother, this unseen ember of fire sweeps over me in a heated rise, I shalt not want, for the fear of being burned alive, I’ve ne’er liked, take it away, even if the fire’s known as love.

I detest fire for it swept the garden and burned it down, and humanity’s origin exiled where they’d frown, until their eternal rest, eons away.

And now, the humanity factor delves in where angels fear to tread, I do, too. Always, richness in a womanly life, but, poor boy, so lonesome bearing so much strife.

I keep away, ne’er to return to this heavenly peril (a man just learns), and I know a difference of right and wrong.

So, is she all the beauty she swears by? I mean, if there remains a point of no return, and I be the fool, foolish be or foolish not, I lean into not even a mother’s love for here, one may be fooled as well.

No sir, I trust not…for those days are gone forever bye. Though now, I string my words to pleasure my day, in a quasi- term fest, where the quill and page are here to stay.

Though, as many others with a genius stance, I swear one day I’ll perform my last dance

upon not a wooden floor strewn with sawdust, but within the mockery of Jacob’s Ladder, I kiss not the stars of heaven, for I no longer smile.

I kiss the Sepulcher but only once, then sadly still, lay down and die.

Thus, the golden mind of Peace.

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John Gregory Evans

~9~ 12/22/2019 6:56:58 AM

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Whether my call of nerve be overshadowed with those poets who’ve gone before, I reel in the characteristics natured from salt and spray, to sail the seas is where my freedom may lay.

I sailed the schooner’s wake for six days straight, and only once met a lady I’d not liked to date; for her character mean and sprite, a nymph not quite as straight, purging like the stealthy mug she forced upon me.

She’s made me feel as ambushed a threat, all the daring womb she’d hang for all to see, her belligerence came like the early morn’s fog, as if in search for her shame and a falsified ecstasy.

You see, the words appear before the night-tides swallow, as a darkened depth for some to follow. And in her candor, I’d like to say, you’ve served me well, in white foam and spray.

Upon my succeeding charter within the Alaskan waters, and Vancouver Bay, I’m accompanied by more than obscurity and black, I’m remedied by peace of mind, I’ll ne’er look back.

My past and shove shall be delayed and noted, but whispers I hear from the siren’s seas, silenced for my lack of their song, lack of urges and lusts, I’d emasculate myself to quiet this hell.

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John Gregory Evans

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~8~ 12/22/2019 2:41:21 AM

Within the craft and a poet’s will, words flow, effusing still, upon the page of virgin white, idiosyncratic (in a personal way), speaking volumes with a distinctive voice, peculiar you may say.

I shall render a guide, a way to word play, the inflective voice of whom you hear, as the heart unfolds of not only word but sights, smells, and sound, thus, the poet’s way, as my expressions abide through the experience for all life’s casualties for the striking maul of a word shaped as if clay (or steel) as it may.

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John Gregory Evans

~7~ 12/22/2019 1:16:51 AM

Within the effusing for friendship’s night, I call upon you and speak the truth and tell me what’s right. Oh, daughter of love for a Republic from southern plains, the stone-jagged layers effusing such pain, tell me true where love remains in the dark of an interior storm, help the soon to be estranged, and a man’s own ebbing tide.

I believe, yet, not with the old, for this ne’er caught up with me from a quarry of stone. In speaking a truth where a birth begins upon the thirteenth of month, mystery and soul, a friendship thus, born.

Or, is the stage set for a singular form? Living, once more in a solitude norm? I yield, yes, for the rapport so fond, a woman’s love, for a man yet unborn.

Tell me love, the Queen upon High, where truth begins, and perjure me not, when I laze, loll, and sit, I am listening, but hear no Voice within my heart, does love just stop?

A truth of a friend speaks out I see as plot, while my truth slips away, I’ll permit her not, nor let her go forth without me in search for a deeper truth.

I ask of love now to stay where she may, I fear, next time, I’ll remain where I lay.

Love leave me ne’er and leave me not.