You’re born and you’re ******;

and some little **** who’s an inch and a half taller than you wants your toy truck and you’re ******;

and here comes puberty and, man, talk about ****** ...

and a thousand luscious nymphs dazzle you from magazine covers and pick your pocket and you’re ******;

and you go to college and you major in history you idiot and you’re ******;

and you fall out of lock step and you’re ******;

and you make the mistake of going out walking on the street at night and a couple of predators nudge each other and smirk “Heyyyy – mug meat!” and you’re ******

and you waste yourself working for nothing but weekends and paydays and one morning you forget to smile at your boss and you’re ******;

and the years slam shut behind you and you’re ******;

and your wife wants a divorce the house the kids the car and two thirds of your salary forever and you’re ******;

and your big ideas end up in a drawer full of cancelled checks and you’re ******;

and your doctor says I’m afraid I have some bad news and you’re ******;

and they stick you with needles and tubes and people talk in whispers when they come into your room but you know that what they’re saying is you’re ******.










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Copyr­­­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

A real poem doesn't try to get you to do anything but listen to it.

A real poem doesn't insist that you have to like it because if you don't, then you are not a warm, caring human being.

A real poem doesn't claim an exemption from criticism because of the honesty of its emotion, the validity of its moral exhortation, or the personal importance to its writer of what it says.

A real poem has nothing at all to do with any sort of politics.

A real poem neither pats you on the back nor kicks you in the shin.

A real poem is not written to gain publication, fellowships, or tenure.

A real poem invokes the gods.





------------------------------------------------
Copyr­­­­­­i­gh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Now we must part,
my sweet Ilona:
I must leave
for Barcelona,

and I must travel
there alone,
and every day
in Barcelon

I’ll bear a heart
that’s like a parcel
of sorrow that
you’re not in Barcel;

yet though we are
apart so far,
you’ll still be with me
there in Bar,

for with love’s constant
eye I’ll see
your image every
day in B.


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Copyr­­­­­i­gh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

They say that love is only
a yearning of the flesh,
and needs the body's lonely
hunger to keep fresh,

but I, too often choosing
to keep the two apart,
have learned to my own losing
that love is of the heart.

The body's deprivation
is fed on what it takes;
the heart finds satiation
in every gift it makes:

the body rues its giving;
the heart has no regrets,
but keeps forever living
what faded flesh forgets.



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Cop­yr­­­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

If a million chickens
laid a million eggs,
they'd all jump up and down
on their two million legs;

just think of it:  a million eggs,
a million whites and yolks
would make a mile long omelet
to feed a lot of folks.


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Copyr­­­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

You've left this land, but this land won’t leave you.
She’s painted like a sky inside your mind,
beneath which your true life is acted out.
Her vengeance is each day you don’t return.
As birds retrace their ways on twilit wings,
however far they forage from their nests,
so too your soul, when daylight’s had its way,
is drawn to suckle at her thorny breast,
until you waken to a world of mirrors,
where nothing is familiar but yourself,
to wander gleaming cities leached of life,
whose foreign doorways bar you from your home.



-------------------------------------------------
Copyr­­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

In a meadow by the hill I saw my love lying there;
in a meadow by the hill, he was there;
in a meadow by the hill I saw my love lying there,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!

O my love, never leave me but remain, but remain;
O my love, never leave me, but remain:
for if you ever leave me I will never love again,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!

No, I will never leave you but remain, but remain;
while the meadow blooms in flowers, I'll remain:
while the deer is in the forest and the sun burns in the sky,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!

In the meadow by the hill he remains, he remains;
while the meadow blooms in flowers, he remains:
while the deer is in the forest and the sun burns in the sky,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!

Oh I am very pretty with my hair all in a braid,
with my hair all in a braid, hanging down:
oh I am very pretty with my hair all in a braid,
Curah crahnah rifi fahlah clee ah tah!



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Copyr­i­gh­­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com