Representative Poems by John Perrault
Some Recently Published:
Poem | St. Joseph's Cemetery
Commonweal Magazine, June 21, 2017
As the limbs bend
with the weight of the leaves
sodden with rain
I am reminded
how rooted I am
to the ground of my being—
to the saturated moss
with its little streams
seeping into the earth,
to the dirt and mud
caking the soles of my boots,
to the sound of the wind.
I am reminded
as I touch, re-touch
this lichen-covered stone
how deep down I am growing,
inch by cellular inch
into my father’s bones.
Published in the July 7, 2017 issue:
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John Perrault is the author of The Ballad of Louis Wagner (Peter Randall Publisher), Here Comes the Old Man Now (Oyster River Press), and Jefferson’s Dream (Hobblebush Books). His poems have appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, Blue Unicorn, Orbis, and elsewhere. He was Portsmouth, NH, Poet Laureate 2003–2005.www.johnperrault.com
Fathers and Sons
At the dinner table,
When manly disagreements loomed
And basic values were at stake,
His mother would reach with both hands
To smooth the tablecloth
And calm the situation.
His father wasn’t able
To appreciate the move. Doom
Would settle on his brow—he’d make
A vow to take the boy in hand,
Show him who’s boss—and the cost
Of talking back to reason.
The boy was capable
Of what boys do. He’d flee the room,
Run out to the barn, throw the rakes
And tools around—and with both hands,
Shinny the pole to the loft.
Years later, he'd come down.
--First Published in Blue Unicorn
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Don't Tell
(I'm nobody! Who are you? --Emily Dickinson)
Not on Facebook?
Me neither.
Two of us then.
Better--the reverse:
A couple of ones.
Ubiquitous
Buzz. Blather.
Imagine
The Belle of Amherst
Twittering at dawn.
--FIRST PUBLISHED IN The Lyric
_____________________________
Foreclosure
Deer sidle into the yard at midnight
For the blackened acorns under the snow--
They watch them from the kitchen window:
Last winter two, maybe three; this year, eight.
Seven doe, a buck, working a good foot
Down to scratch a living--nosing dead leaves,
Frozen grass, small chunks of brittle moss,
For what they have to offer: bitter fruit.
They sit in the dark with only the lamp
Across the road for light: the buck circles,
Stakes claim to a patch up by the fence--
A doe approches, backs off with a limp.
Neither stirs, says a word, when the last deer
Moves on. When dawn defaults to a gray sky
Marbled with gold. When the clock strikes eight,
And the Sheriff arrives with the papers.
--New Verse News
__________________
--from Here Comes the Old Man Now
Gift
Love comes wrapped in three words
ribboned by the lips;
best to open carefully,
it's such a fragile gift.
Gently part the syllables,
lift them to the light;
once they're whispered, they can break
your heart--so hold on tight.
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Ashes to Ashes Ash blankets the old graves We stumble into the picture straining to focus gritty markers We lean close |
I Like It I like it when the mourning doves We knew setting out we knew that we'd get soaked
Found Art Truth comes to the surface hard as stone The bone the ground yields to a thousand rains.
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--from The Ballad of Louis Wagner and other New England Stories in Verse
| All Souls Eve As the mist lifts from the cut swale the deer slip out of the trees dropping their shadows to the meadow floor baring themselves to the moon-- slowly they turn in the pale light moving in groups of twos, of threes testing the earth with their silver hooves their eyes, coming toward us. |
Beans Charter's beans are poking through the dirt Meanwhile, he'll marinate shot of spit: "You don't want to rush he likes to say--" a good round |