John Ryan

Equinox

I might trip over the rough-shod boots
of a night like this.

The way it secretly burbles
out of the throats of frogs,

glides along the trees'
cool, winter-held exhalations­-

their lungs by the thousands
dangling and pulsing on petioles­-

the way the tulips are shuttered
and shuddering against it,

the way it milks the cries from children
as they swing through it,

shames me from the idolatry
of sun worship.
 
 

Instructions for a snowy morning

Unwind the clocks.
Step out of anticipation
and into the present.
Bring a cup of something hot
to your lips.

If the radio that has announced
today's closings still pleases you,
leave it on.
Let the classical on the AM
soothe the world to sleep again.

Tame your hunger for the news curled
in plastic wrap in a drift on the lawn
with butter and toast instead.
What¹s old is new today.

As a spider makes its way across
the hinterland of your low, busy carpet,
venture no further yourself.

Position yourself by a window,
feet up,
head back.

Let the tiny white collisions mount
in your mind.
They are the only matter.
 
 

On seeing a crow

On seeing a crow
Fall at least forty feet to his death,
Just like that,
Right in the middle of the boulevard,
With no warning, no flapping of wings,
Indeed, without a car in sight, either,

The low morning sun should have made
The scene more flamboyant.
But the rays were diffused
Into a soft, unending yellow ether,
Not pink, orange or red­-
Jaundice, no passion for life
Or death.

How is it that the harbinger of death
himself could fall?
Who gave the command to kill the messenger?
Death is not capricious,
But rather orchestrates with an eye towards greatness
As an artist and decomposer.

Who can say?
Maybe the orders were mixed up.
Maybe the crow decided to disobey.
 
 

Citizens

Overhuddled against the wind
our one homeless man breathes through his beard
and wills his able legs up the boulevard.

His beard is ever-ready,
ever-full, bushy to his shirt collar,
obscuring his mouth and neck.

It's not as cold as he's acting
nor is the wind so strong
nor his puffy down jacket so worn.

He might be portending the worst
that is yet to come;
he might be pretending that the worst

is yet to come.
He ticks off the seasons in that same coat.
I passed him once on a concrete foot bridge

over the creek. There, stripped
of civil overtures of avoidance,
I looked at him full.

But even then he leaned into
the robust summer stillness,
the percolating heat

in our river valley town,
and gazed at his plodding feet
and the space they meant to occupy.

I haven't looked into his eyes
to know if his gaze is a gaze at all,
nor how purposeful is his stride,

nor what errand keeps him forever
ascending and descending the gangways
and crumbling steps and culverts

of our river valley town,
neither progressing towards nor receding from
our sight, our minds;

a monk in our river valley town
where everything slides back down.
 
 

Love Songs

They're writing songs of love 
but not for me.
                                                  -Chet Baker

I've written love songs on late whiskey nights
    (about them, on bottle after bottle of beer);

I've written love songs on the dawn
    (about her selfless beautifying
        of however we look the morning after);

I've written love songs on snow
    (and you know how);

I've written love songs on the dew
    (on the drops, but unseen they lie
        on air, the rain rolling away);

I've written love songs on coffee steam
    (that softens the cold white wall behind it);

I've written love songs on feather beds
    (about their staidness for lovemaking,
        on the splitting wood of your futon);

I've written love songs when I
    (or you me) have kept you up.

Now I write love songs
    for your nose above the covers,
        for the lamp light on your face,

for your sleeping tasting of the air,
    and, yes, I write them on those rays.