Jonathan Bohrn

Thought for Thursday

Tomorrow’s Thursday again, Swept with the days’ meandering flow: This, that, and the week goes, Hearing time splash through cracks. Whose arrangement now seems Spaced in distance of memories, Recollections, recurring regrets, The trickle

Fall

Understand the language Of fall, approaching: Cold mornings Drawing your bundled warmth; Sailing-leaf afternoons, The enchantment of melancholy, Departure etched In the bronze of light Whispering with the wind; Its shimmering tones marking time

Lions

Not enough study Has been done On old lions dying. Unable to feed themselves, Without pride, teeth Or claws, their death Is starvation. We don’t wonder What happens To predators past their prime, Pastures

Gardening

Pruning the rosebush The ache of the summer heat On my shoulders, The feel of the living stalk Between fingers, Petals – one, another, Then another Seek ground, life Not strong enough to hold

Matt's Manifesto

The Renaissance men are aging now, Having survived Industrialization’s Original Sin And the Information Age flood; The need for specialization Drives wrinkles of obsolescence Through their shriveling faces That have seen too much popular

Vienna, December 1999

I watched The winter light die from the bridge, The sky a sinking empire’s battleship, Ice floes’ jagged edges Clink their cold toast To a stilled Danube. Johann Strauss Would have committed Himself to

Da Gama returns

I have taken refuge In travelogues, Bare silk-screen images of Evening cityscapes Giving in to a garish-clad sky; A tourist romance, Postcard edges feathered By the contents Of the bottle I lay with With

Ohio

I have questioned The loyalty Of rivers in winter, Their yearnings for oceans obstructed, Indecisive meandering Clogged by ice floes And winter drought. No Amazon or Nile Would endure this thickening Of their blood,

Journey West

I said Goodbye To Beale Street one year, Eyes hurting From the painful contrast Of stark white on black – Dividing-lines with No intervening warm colors. West of the Mississippi The Trail of Tears

Instinct

she is So intense in her fear: Her nostrils quiver At the scent of society’s danger; Caught in the glare Of each stranger’s casual glance She turns, No defense except vigilance, Gracefully shivering To