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.


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.

John Gregory Evans

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~6~ 12/21/2019 9:42:43 AM

Why yes! Morning is here. So today, now what? The skies are cloudy, the wind blows upon the central bench of Boise, Idaho, and it is cold. But my writing is taking off, beautifully I must say. Thank you, friends for your tremendous support. Jesus, I am so grateful this early morning.

So, just as Walt Whitman uses his “quasi-scientific coinages” mentioned in Song of Myself, Robert Hass and Paul Ebenkamp, 2010., p. 136, Berkley, Counterpoint Press, Print., I humbly borrow in my poetic statement, also by Arthur Hugh Cloud, 1849, “The procreant heat and furor of our youth,” sitting here thinking back on my youth as it was on fire, unquenchable, grateful now, for a control for maturity aged in grace and a bit wiser, today will render its day in glory despite the gray wisps of cloud-cover.

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John Gregory Evans

John Gregory Evans ~

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~1~  12/20/2019 6:41:15 AM

I have loved honoring all men under these skies of blue, or gray, or white-washed with the vaporous clouds of peace for all humanity.

I, too, know them well, not to loiter in a boisterous manner, but rely on the humility of all matter.

From within my cell perpetrated in darkness, I rise to the wonder of a sunrise, yielding yet, another gracious word as they are written down. It is called poetry. It is called mystical. It is called Life.

I give thanks to the 19th century poet who loved the “mast-hemm’d Manhattan,” and to greet the day of man with a grateful smile in a world crying through freedom’s plea. Fear not for the written word shall live on in a literary eternity.

I am with you. And, I shall lay with you in the frozen forest with a smell of earth, the tears of the grave that lead you to your paradise.

We shall sing song within the “divine milieu” where life begins her symphony of the singing crickets swallowing up the evening dew. Forever in a day and a night, I am with you.

~2~  Friday, December 20, 2019

Today, as morning breaks into splendor with this burnt orange of twilight sky, I savor the word. I savor these obscure voices tuned to a finer melody of what is inside a man’s heart. Can you tell me what is within another’s heart? And, without complaint?

For this becomes the creed of man, to protest his existence, murmur beneath his breath, find fault with his neighbor, grouse foul objections before the Holy One.

It is true. I have given in to this ploy. The eras of my life have yielded their sour fruits with only I to blame. The gross negligence of anger is all mine. My ruin has been inevitable. But love conquers all.

Poets are the peacemakers. In a spiritual companionship with Whitman’s verse I give thanks. It is good and honorable to learn from the Master. To save grace is to listen to every word, hear his voice, and teach his worth. In a gist I import his value as man, and troubadour. The bitterness of life has departed my lips.

~3~  Friday, December 20, 2019

This ebb and flow of poetic musings shape-shifts from matter to being within this gifted moment for words to come alive.

John Evans, an instrument of form, of word, and of northern skies, and not a perfect man of the cloth, nor reason, nor all the why’s. Affluent in time and space, a dimensional being, comprehending fully not this human race, who rubbishes his own primordial face, with the bearded compliment of antiquated grays, and whites, I wish to say gesturing the New Year in melded with the Holy One’s truths and human rights.

One may say the truth was felt back in the desert quarries that led to a freedom of northern earth and frozen skies, swollen of word and pen is the involvement of transience transformed through and by.

My heart and chest thus punctilious, conscientious of word and rhyme, though stories of life arrive in a transcendent cloud of unknowing, punctual of verse and rhyme.

~4~ 12/20/2019 7:49:19 AM

My body holds no calloused carcass, transparency is all I am. I am fluid as in the movement of prawns and cockles with their watery biomes off the shores of the Mexican Gulf.

Why, purity is all you see, in getting to know the real me.

I wished once to live in the mossy forest or upon the oasis of the seas, away from the world I hoped to roam but fear I never would have come to know the disposition of you or of me.

1970 Working the San Antonio Riverwalk Parade

Walking the path of a stony bridge in 1970 I met the man trained in ‘Nam’ to kill his political enemy. I asked him, “Sir, what was his final plea?” In return he answered, “he spoke of retaliatory.” I questioned further, “Did you have to kill?” He resounded back, “Yes, again, and emphatically, I always will!”

The climate of war brutal as hell, or perhaps not as my comrades wished to tell. Blank stares with not even the reflection of the sun could I see within their hollows and skulls, no words were spoken ‘tween they and ‘tween me, rapports as a slithery python’s dung willed to spit upon your bony face, and as words expelled to “shit down your neck,” would have taken its place.

And, this will be stated last among my regimented time, I loathe the past of a fragmented mind.

As poets will, the truth be discerned, should render to life all that they will. As Kings and Queens, Princes and all, humanity bellows upon each kindred fall, none so graceful to write down their pains, or cure-alls, or the experience of wisdom revealed, and pass on to generations to come.

~5~ 12/20/2019 5:23:33 PM

Fatigued now, in memories once lusted in the flesh, another bitter incubus as my visitor lay dressed, in silver smoke, the internal fires at seventeen lay hidden, concealed, imperceptible, and mean, The earth now sacred, the voices within her dusty borders reach out to sky, river, bird, and stone, this incarcerated cell where death threats were made, the walls of steel captured the essence of every word.

I’ve become aware during a time of striding where only angels fear to tread, I’ve trembled and shivered myself to a death and bed, creating in an oxymoronic new breath, fearful, though created and wonderfully made of mud and clay.

Once before the Holy One; I feared his mighty hand delved within me and shook me to the core. Was I right, or was I wrong? Or was I committed to being more?

Through this struggle we humans live by our numb and prickly bodies gather in their orgiastic ways.

The amorous scent of flesh forms, set before nostril and sky, brings a man to his erotic knees, creates within a new and exciting high.

With my body’s pleasure wrapped in hand, lovely to sensation. Thus, the dilemma of the day made me insane; though the least to say, with morality crushed, and bearing vixens at bay, my subtle tendencies explore yet, a divine mystery, choosing mercy to save.

Though younger years proved worthy of stone, my flesh has been beaten, crushed as in bones.

In writing poetry, I detest ‘flowery rhymes’; for telling truth, one engages intellectually, within the gifted scholarly lines.

Through John Evans, I force not my lines, though share a story told within her godly times.

The imperative truth in words and flesh we state, seizing my soul, bearing no hate, from the depths of the heart, I take the high road, antonymous to the deprived state of just being in an existential threat.

All and all the end must stare me down in an episode of shame and guilt, never good enough for some, as women will come and women will go, and yet, within my embryonic heart, I wished on many occasions to stay!

Taught by one and shared by many, an onslaught of broken hearts and aching bones. And still I loved. I loved with passion for those who loved me.

But history parts the seas with just one look as one so fine over 50 years ago stole my heart, festive and with the richness of raven hair, Dutch boy I presume, kissed my heart with ecstasy.

I ne’er forgot! I never will! I don’t even dare! For tenderness we shared once on a lonely dirt road, chauffeured as lips still tell, a tale of donkey ladies that scared the hell away from me. I remember.

Of driveways and holding hands we kissed only to hear the anger ‘tween fathers and me, she pleaded to no avail but I dare not leave.

My first ever proposal and was turned a away to youth and time, and still I think of smiles and blessings every time, I think of you!

My heart aches in huge doses for a bit of erotica now and then with you and I, deeper than love, and always will!

Till warmth and friendship deep discovers the void of ache from within my depths, that which changed me to a state of perfection for that I am grate – full.

And 10 years past we vest in still the same as if our measure embraced a name, we hoped would be love, and still love is strong to this very day.

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The gist of seeing eye to eye through the depths of a poetic appeal, exists only by the genders, same.  Woman reads from the depths of heart, the depths in whole, where man exists purely outward in body and form. At times the genre’s affluence, poetry and all, reads as though the truly gifted souls write amalgamated and joined in body and soul.

For, the secret of woman is held from within, wisdom, emotive, scholarly, again; and the man’s appearance deems an outward flow of nature and the spirits of the woods, the fluidity of rivers, and stones, the complexion of landscape, the disposition of form.

Yin is female, and Yang is male, where the difference of this is purely intimacy and esoteric, but man shall surprise you to know of the same, for both will delve the depths of the psyche, one and in whole thus, Yin, and thus Yang.