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Wild John - Art and Poetry

John Reinhart's unique art and poetry

John Reinhart, Wild John, Poet

BIO
An arsonist by trade, John Reinhart lives on a farmlette in Colorado with his wife and children. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz, member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and was awarded the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship. He is a co-editor at Poetry Nook where he won the weekly contest seven times, and has been nominated for Dwarf Stars and Rhysling Awards.

The Works

Last night I wrote a symphony –
“Corrugated Recycles” I call it –
on the back of a pizza box.

It starts with strings playing pizzicato,
lumbers deep into horns covered in grease,
then cymbals, like giant pepperoni, crash.

The second movement creeps up the side
onto the top: “Cosmic Pizza” is all percussion,
rise and expansion, sustain, rest.

Movement three goes inward,
the most obscure and difficult part,
cluttered with crust and crumbs, real cheese,

stains too dark, too somber for any but celli,
summoning aged wood
like twelve year barreled bourbon.

Finally, up the inside lid, closure,
a simple melody to light the tunnel –
done in thirty minutes or it’s free.

first published in 94 Creations Journal #6


Abominable Punctuation

craters
mark the sentence left to mystery – 
black eyes staring from the snowstorm
twinkling empty promises to all
but the intrepid believers
pursuing their beastly author
if only to prove his existence
as civilization brought Grendel
to his knees and raised the digital
totem to ward off the legends
of footprints in the snow…

first published in Star*Line

 

sipping time

she ladled a dollop
off the moon from the lower corner
of her window,
dropped it in her steaming tea
and drank, swirling nebulae
and tea leaves, reading future
and past together –
she switched off
the moonlight so a future lover
parting the curtains could allow
a silvery path to extend
along the floor, across the bed,
up two long bare legs,
reflecting a round face,
asleep, dreaming of long shadows
in an old garden of somnolent morning
glory and wisteria posing like
jaguars in early National Geographics,
observing the stellar
pebbles directing the way
home, past the moors and dunes
to a salt shaped hovel yet to be built
on the edge of sea
where the world’s turtle plods onward
across the sparkling sand,
headed to heights reflected in depths
as the incoming tide promises tales
of a thousand moons thousands of miles
away where her lover’s boat drifts into the
horizon, into a ladleful of moon
absorbed by the dream of steaming tea
and a quiet face illuminated in moonlight

first published in Grievous Angel