Category Archives: Original poetry

3 Poems / Tom Evans

Poem on a Flower

My flower was laden with dew,
so pink, so moist, and open;
Like lips that are parted in two,
her center, her tongue, was golden.

And crossed by green blades of grass,
formed in a triumphal arch;
Through which some great man could pass,
or some great army march.

The Anvil

Forging the malleable soul,
glint of future,
bellowing past;
Stoking the white hot coal,
’til it rings of truth
at last.

While the heart brings forth life,
red and rife.

The Journey

Longer days may be
when summer comes around,
but the little boy must journey
and has not reached the town.
When he is all grown
where will he be found?

The way is full of turnings
the stars have still not shown,
through winter’s blast
and summer’s burning
will he remain alone-
and never find his home?

American Pastoral / a poem by Tom Evans

Strangely,

the seemingly

disparate photographs

coalesce,

calling to mind

a childhood occurrence.

 

The photo of the

Abbey at Rievaulx

I’m looking at

looks very much

like the town

I grew up in.

I imagine the Cistercians

pacing the wooded grounds

in solemn solitude,

and suddenly recall

my neighbors

searching the woods

at the end of our street-

frantic-

like black ants

combing the ground for food,

trying to find the boy

lured there

by a monster.

 

I was there

when they found him

in his death cramp

in the snow.

It called to mind

the picture entitled

“Big Foot in death”

from the battlefield

at Wounded Knee.

 

 

 

 

 

“Grasshopper Karma” / a poem by Tom Evans

 Grasshopper Karma

I saw a grasshopper today for the first time

since I was a kid;

I was surprised as I hadn’t

ever given them another

thought in all that time;

I gave it its space, wary as I am

today of all insects.

We took them for granted back then,

seeing who could catch the most,

some bothered more than others by

the uncomfortable feeling their thrashing legs

and the bump their heads made in the palms of our hands,

though none would ever admit it.

Still jumping, trying to make their escape

as we cradled their taut bodies carefully

to finally put them in mason jars

(along with some grass, of course),

poking holes in the top of the jar lid

to let them breathe.

We watched them jump for a time

and joked about eating chocolate covered ones,

the coolness and smell of the grass,

the act of capturing them,

part of the woven fabric

of our summers.

I don’t remember if we left them to die

when we grew bored,

I’d like to think I didn’t but

I see so few today

I can’t help but think I did,

as I went on to become a man.

©Tom Evans, 2016