October 2024
J. R. Thelin
johnthelin@yahoo.com
johnthelin@yahoo.com
Bio Note: Though I in no way consider myself a nature poet, place has always been important to me in the writing of poems. Being aware of place has a grounding element for me even in my wildest twists and turns. Senses of place have been significant also in chapbooks and books of mine that have been published, including The Way Out West (Concrete Wolf chapbook) and Last Cha Cha in Albuquerque (Main Street Rag, 2017). I offer these three place-focused unpublished poems for your perusal.
Food Co-op, Upstate New York
It hits me as I traipse through the front door—
that pungent smell of food recently
plucked or gathered from the earth:
fat and ungainly carrots,
bumpy and twisted, fistfuls
of broccoli stalks and flowers,
the knock you out of your socks
aroma of coffee beans virgin, unground,
several barrels of grain – oat berries and rye –
a small litter on the floor that will be swept
up by one of the owners at closing time.
Everyone’s in mukluks or hiking books,
that late autumn nip in the air after first snowfall
as we shuffle from row to row
rack to rack bin to bin
thinking of what might go
into the pot tonight, how much
music we will make as a fire
burns low in the wood stove
it took us all last year
to earn enough to buy.
Snake in the Grass
The dog scrambles through weeds and brush,
senses on high, ready for all that moves.
There’s no rattler, hidden & coiled, I trust,
sun a slippery yolk, sky an eggshell blue
like the one Jo-Jo discovered in a fallen nest
outside our third grade classroom window.
She scooped it up, held in her soft cloudy fist,
brought in triumph to teacher who allowed
she’d never witnessed a prettier egg.
I suddenly hated Jo-Jo, began to plan
elaborate ways I could take her down a peg
but chickened out time & time again.
I hear a hiss in the grass.
I hope it will let us pass.
Idaho Pit Stop
We wander around the Idaho crater.
It’s as if the earth turned itself
inside out. The state’s biggest
tourist attraction, our speech
falls to a murmur, compelled by
the dazed gazes of those around us.
What force did it take to make us
quit our idle chit chat, make us
forget our next day destination
miles of highway from here, a boat trip
down the Rogue River, eagles
in dead trees guaranteed for a camera click.
But here only vultures circle
the massive pit. And in the distance
an untended fire burns by the roadside,
surely an omen as stark as Dante’s guide.
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL