*Featured image courtesy of David Sinclair on Unsplash*
Jonathan Lloyd joins us with captivating descriptions and a refreshing style that will keep you engaged through all three of his poems.
The old man
from Wales gyascutus
picks his way through
the bramble thorns
on his way to pub.
His knee bothers.
The beer warm.
The company chatty.
The rain.
The window–fogged.
The old man
walks home through
the bramble
across bogs, underneath
bright spilled sky.
The field a rimfull
of misty heaven;
the thorns’ lesson
slumbers, all light,
the window hindsight clear
year on to yesteryear.
There’s no word
for snow in Inuit–
that’s baloney.
Must be fifty.
Yet the Greeks did not
have a word for word.
And they wrote them
alltogetherlikethis
and then
.sihtekilrehtegotlla
The Germans just stick
stuff together to make
a newword.
Nobody cares.
We do what we like.
Except when we fish.
Then we need bait and hook
and line and pole.
We wait.
When a fish is caught
we eat. We eat.
And the fish, we call
it fish,
and it is good.
It is something.
It is something else.
How to become a hawk
First, sip your tea.
Hold it on your tongue
until you must swallow.
There–you notice
the point at which you savor.
Now, spread your arms
and scream, but
from your stomach
up through the throat.
Rise up
on tippy toes.
Feel the wind
at your back
until you begin
to fall. There,
in the savor, the hawk.
A pharmacist by trade, Jonathan tends to sip his coffee in iambic pentameter, probably while re-reading his copy of Don Quixote. His poetry has appeared in “Up the River,” and Andwerve Literary Magazine.” This is his first feature on The Fictional Café.
