Tobacco, liquor, and women are bad for you,
so I’ve quit smoking.  Someday, liquor too.

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Copyr­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Mistakes were made.
Critics were stilled.
Bribes were paid.
People were killed.


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Copyr­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

It was very hot.  The day had gone just past its noon.
   I’d stretched out on a couch to take a nap.
One of the window-shutters was open, one was closed.
   The light was like you’d see deep in the woods,
or like the glow of dusk when Phoebus leaves the sky,
   or when night pales, and day has not yet dawned.
— a perfect light for girls with too much modesty,
   where anxious Shame can hope to hide away.
When, look!  here comes Corinna in a loose ungirded gown,
   her parted hair framing her gleaming throat,                
like lovely Semiramis entering her boudoir,
   or fabled Laïs, loved by many men.
I snatched her gown off — not that it mattered, being so sheer,
   and yet she fought to keep that sheer gown on;
but since she fought with no great wish for victory,
   she lost, betraying herself to the enemy.
And as she stood before me, her garment all thrown off,
   I saw a body perfect in every inch:
What shoulders, what fine arms I looked on — and embraced!
   What lovely *******, begging to be caressed!                
How smooth and flat a belly under a compact waist!
   And the side view — what a long and youthful thigh!
But why go into details?  Each point deserved its praise.
   I clasped her naked body close to mine.
You can fill in the rest.  We both lay there, worn out.
   May all my afternoons turn out this well.


— from the Latin


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Cop­­yr­igh­­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Never freak out when everything goes wrong:
   that won’t last long.
Don’t strut your stuff when you’ve raked in a hefty ***:
   you’re not so hot.

Whether your life has been a living hell
   that Dante couldn’t tell,
or if you’ve basked in the best of everything
   the world can bring,

life’s a balancing act.  I’ll tell you why:
   you’re going to die,
like it or not, so you might as well have fun
   before you’re done.

Sip the champagne, buy paintings, sail a yacht,
   spend what you’ve got.
Every clock is a time bomb:  there’s no way to know
   when it will blow.

The mint DeLorean,  the Pacific Heights flat,
   even your pedigreed cat,
it all ends up, whatever you did,
   with your slacker kid.

The trust fund brat and the boy who grew up in a dump
   hold hands and jump
into the pit we’re herded toward like cattle.
   You hear that rattle?

The gods are shaking your dice:  the next sunrise
   may be snake eyes.
  

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Copyr­igh­­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

This is a poem, but don’t be afraid,
it can’t hurt you.  You can read it without
the slightest obligation.  It won’t ask
you to sign anything or pester you
for a commitment.  It will not expect
you to sit quietly at your desk with
your hands folded until the bell rings.  You
can put it on a poster on your wall
or carry it in your pocket in case
you ever need a poem or just leave
it lying around.  It is all surface,
so you don’t have to worry about how
deep to stick your finger into it.  It
will give you the same answer each time you
ask it, which is more than you can say for
most people.  It won’t make things better or
worse.  If you think about it, you will be
thinking of nothing.  It just sits there.  It
doesn’t even have a clever ending.


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Copyr­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

The victor triumphing recounts
(lest pride should mar his fame),
“It’s not to win or lose that counts;
it’s how you play the game.”

But losers, when they drown their shame
in truth-provoking *****,
will groan, “**** how you play the game:
it’s whether you win or lose.”


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Cop­yr­igh­­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

After Sir Walter Raleigh


Go, poem, since you are free,
and, though you know it’s hopeless,
if you make just one see,
at least there’ll be one dope less
   to chant the hymns that praise
   the liars of our days.

Tell friendship it’s just greed
to take without returning,
tell love it’s only need
to quench a ****** burning,
   and if they doubt your word,
   then flip them both The Bird.

Tell managers they care
for nothing but their perks;
tell judges they’re unfair;
tell lawyers that they’re jerks:
   when they shall have demurred,
   dismiss them with The Bird.

Tell churches that they sing
of god and worship money;
their purpose is to sting
their flocks and keep the honey:
   so let them be assured
   they won’t escape The Bird.

Tell statesmen they commit
mass ****** for their masters,
and never need admit
blame for their disasters:
   on them is well conferred
   The Order of The Bird.

Tell liberals they’re moony;
conservatives, they’re tools;
call flaming leftists loony,
and right wing ranters, fools:
   if they cry, “No we’re not!”,
   The Bird must be their lot.

Say politicians lie
and lie and lie and lie
and lie and lie and lie
and lie and lie and lie.
   They don’t like what they’ve heard?
   Perhaps they’ll like The Bird.

Tell radical professors
rebellion’s easy, when you’re
among the proud possessors
of insulating tenure.
   If they squeal, “That’s absurd!”,
   assign their grade:  The Bird.

Tell poets they’re careerist
illiterate poseurs;
tell critics they’re the merest
flotsam on auteurs,
   and if they scowl and scoff,
   then they must be flipped off.

Tell generals they delight
to climb their hierarchy
enslaving youth who fight
to keep their owners free:
   if generals howl and hoot,
   present The Bird Salute.

Say toadying little ferrets
are guaranteed a cheer,
while unconnected merit’s
rewarded with a sneer:
   if they disparage you,
   you know what you must do.

Call honor egotism’s
euphemistic name;
point out that patriotism’s
an antidote to shame,
   and if they are outraged,
   release The Bird uncaged.


Then vanish, poem, at last,
when you have done your duty,
into the spirit’s vast
retreat of truth and beauty,
   and leave this world we see
   to King Hypocrisy.




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Cop­yr­ight 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

white days
of almond flower
and flesh sheathed in sunlight

white sea
dissolves laughing on flat rocks

below white chapels
where consecrated bones
crumble into purity of incense

white kisses
beating against the sun with white wings

white boats set sail for white dreams
where the white days have gone


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Copyrigh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Aphrodite, immortal, enthroned in wonder,
Sky-daughter, webstress of love schemes, I entreat you
not to break my spirit with pangs of anguish,
Queen, Lady, Mother,

but now come to me, if in the past you ever
also heeded me when I cried from afar, and,
leaving behind the golden house of your father
Zeus, you descended

borne in a chariot yoked to a flock of lovely
sparrows flying fast over earth’s black richness,
thickly fluttering wings leading you a passage
through bright mid-heaven,

soon arriving, and you, O supreme in blessing,
eternity’s smile gleaming from your expression,
asked me now this time what again I suffered,
what did I pray for,

what beyond all else I would want to happen
with all my love-maddened heart: “Who now needs persuasion
to be led back to your affection? Who is it,
Sappho, who hurts you?

Though she now may run, she will soon pursue you;
now she may spurn gifts, but she soon will give them;
now she feels no love, but she soon will feel it,
even unwilling.”

Come to me this time again: act as my deliveress
from this mastering pain, and, as the fulfiller
of everything that my passion hopes for, take your
stand as my ally.

— translated from the Greek by Jon Corelis

Poetry seduces the truth with lies.
Poetry tastes like silvery moonlight wine.
Poetry’s losses give you extra tries.
Poetry’s the ultimate pickup line.
Poetry colorizes your old life.
Poetry plays eternity for a sucker.
Poetry explains where you were to your wife.
Poetry’s a jive-*** *******.
Poetry laughs while you’re out there mowing the lawn.
Poetry tosses a ruby into your grave.
Poetry’s what’s left when the poet’s gone.
Poetry makes it easier to be brave.
Poetry molds roses out of breath.
Poetry is an argument with death.


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Copyr­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

I saw you in a house at sea

you were in every room
and each room had a light of its own

in the living room the protean light of the future
in the kitchen the busy light of childhood
in the bedroom the physical light of remembrance
in the attic the muffled light of crossroads

the sea turned into a desert
the house to a bird the color of the sky
which lifted itself on wings of wind
leaving you among the skulls and cactus

with gold to curse at

love to curse with

The difference between a finger and a thumb
is Shakespeare.  Anyone can dream
of a candle, but you’d better dodge your shadow,
because death, that great et cetera,
is the opposite of surreal.  If there were no thunder
there would be no mountains, so something like a snowflake
cannot be conferred:  it must be earned.
You will tell me that anyone can say this,
which is why I am saying it.  Your puzzlement
shows how well you understand.  It is important
to have someone to talk to
even if they can’t hear you.  You can polish a mirror
until you see your face, but it will not
be you, because meaning is created
when we are not looking, while the grass
grows, grows, grows.

That was an ode to Walt Whitman.

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Copyr­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com

Dear Amanda,

    I hope this letter finds your well.
I must tell you shovel, sparkplug, grass, rice.
The meteor you sent me crumbled
because I forgot to pay my dream tax.
Amanda, Amanda, your flesh is soaked with bread.
I saw you standing barefoot with your babies in a hamper,
and I thought of you so hard I cut my hand
on a piece of candy.  Please ask Father if he’s seen my voice.
The world gets flatter:  it’s sticky in between.
Your hips are violet cycles.  They make me ashamed of the clock.
Your eyes make whatever they look at count.
You just put me on the pins of wonder.
Amanda, everything is soiled except your heart.
I’m flying as hard as I can, but the air gives out.
The wistful starlings have forgotten but are not forgotten.
Please ask Mother to make me a choice.
Give little sister as many kisses as there are daisies,
and tell little brother not to hurt himself on the dandelions.
I must tell you cloud, stoplight, window, flute.
I must tell you asphalt, armature, prairie, sky.
Amanda, I’ve got to lean on this to say it but
the words don’t matter, they can only mean.
The best revenge is not to care.  Reach.  Reach.  Reach.


                             Eventually,

                                          Me

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Copyr­­­igh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com