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Jean-Paul Pecqueur

Big Thinker

            (After Williams)

 

Patty’s new green PJs

have flashy racing stripes.

They are fresh this week

from the assembly line

and just in time for spring.

At night they glimmer

as they hurry Patty off

to her western dreamland.

Then they rest. They huddle

during the day with the sweaters

and the bulky linens atop

the old wicker picnic basket.

And I watch them as they sleep

with my physical eye

out of simple fellowship,

love and wonder.

 

 

Book People

 

 

After many hours of trial and error

his nom-de-plume found

in a watercolor reproduction

of a modest kitchen garden

what had always been missing.

Something living to attend to

is what he calls it; a refresher course

in lack of control.  “Adieu to Norman,

Bon Jour to Joan and Jean-Paul,”

murmured the weeping willows,

as his ear reached into their wig of vines.

He had never felt so free and alone.

Like the roar of the crest of the wave

at the seashore—cry all day,

all night if you have to,

erupt if you must you must he sang

after finally letting the lungfish go.  

Where does one get such an idea 

that the sublime is to damage

what dreambirds are to a lasting cure? 

Having already died three times,

four if you count the poison in his heart,

now he can eat anything he wants.  

He takes a walk outside.  Such good light!

What a mood! The earth is his living room.

His decorative seed pods have sprouted.

The wall-flowers are in full bloom.

 

 

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