John Stone's Poetry Pages provided by Bravenet.com

Bio

I have been a musician/songwriter most of my life, and still make my living playing music.
My interest in poetry began in a bar in Nevada City California, where I found myself sitting next to Mr. Alan Ginsberg, who gave me a rather severe lecture on why poetry does not suck! From that day on, I made it my business to explore poetry of all kinds, and found that the old coot was right...
I write and enjoy all types of poetry, but my heart belongs to contemporary Japanese short form: Haiku, Senryu, Tanka, and Haibun. Some of my work has been published in Tiny Words, Contemporary Haibun, and Simply Haiku.

HAIKU

calving season
cherry blossoms fly
from kicked up heels *

*winner: Sakura award, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival International Haiku competition 2008.

morning sun
my reflection
in a coffee cup

icy wind
my work boots stand ready
by the door

black fedora
the blind man
inspects its brim *

*First published in Tiny Words, 2007

winter sunset
the stillness
of a silhouette

tule fog
a heron rises
towards the sun

October sunset
two monks feast
on the last melon

morning fog
last of the heron
follow the geese

dark and cool
beneath the date palms
your shining eyes

native flute
her dulcet tones
still the blackbird

first cherry blossoms
I brush the pink
from my shoulder

harvest moon
a north wind
rattles the wheat

grandpas tractor
the brown recluse
finds a home

first rain
a blackbird bathes
in the dog dish

sunset squall
the pink underbelly
of a storm cloud

august sun
even the crow
bows his head

sonoran spring
saguaros arms
catch the rain

attic window
a ray of sunshine
finds her hope chest

this gentle wind
over the gravestone
my mother's hands

Champagne Eyes

another dusty town

crumbling stucco and neon

against a sky on fire

as the desert sun goes down

on a city in flames

instruments loaded in

another Mexican meal

hotter than a pistol

after a drive by

and the waitress has champagne eyes

the daytime drunks wander out

the night time drunks

slide into still warm booths

leather worn slick with use

and the band begins to play

world weary road dogs

ply their aural madness

the funk erases the vomit smell

the cigarette burns

and the hookers can’t sit still

the B3 scorches clean the shabby walls

drums and bass touch a primal place

that lives within each of us

the joint is suddenly Carnegie Hall

and the bartender buys the band a round

high and exhausted

we drag equipment to the bus

in the silent predawn darkness

and someone whispers did you see her?

the girl with the champagne eyes?

the driver cranks the engine

it coughs like a junkie on his last legs

dragging soft sighs and harsh laughter

out onto the highway again

and it’s another dusty town

Burma Shave

straight razor

whetted to a diamond edge

I remember the rhythmic slap

blade against leather

as he stropped and stropped

his gnarled mahogany hands

in sure manipulation

as the hot water ran

I watched in wonder from the hallway

memorizing his ritual

admiring his deft strokes

waiting for the blood

that never came...

The razor is mine now

one of the little things

he left behind in memory

i keep it sharp

as the obsidian blade

but have never used it

he was so much better than i

in a close shave

Hotel Congress

they met in the lobby
sunk into that ancient leather couch
the one that envelops you
like the legendary hooker
with a heart of gold
they sipped their gin and tonics
as the round faced black and white TV
watched them hatch their plan

they reminisced about the old days
when the place caught fire
and Dillinger's boys were finally embraced
by the long arm of the law
lovingly transported
to that island in a cold, cold bay
and they solemnly agreed
they would not go down like that

up in the room they cleaned their guns
rehearsed their parts
over the steady thump from the club downstairs
where the terminally hip meet the unwashed
they pulled their resolve around them
like the robes of a zen monk
with a 12 gage begging bowl
and wished they could sleep

in the vicious morning sun
they made their way to the bank
through dusty desert streets
quiet as Dillinger's grave
masks and guns in place
they pondered the locked door
while the policeman chuckled
"You're not too good at this, are you?"

without hesitation they made their play

spinning into oblivion

there was no blaze of glory

as the shots rang out

in a shower of blood and dismay

their eyes met in recognition

of what had been forgotten

on a bright Sunday morning