Writer in the Woods

All Written by Jonathan Forrest

It’s Been a While Since

It has been a while since
I wrote a poem.

One would say I’m rusty. 
Or perhaps
it’s like riding a bike
which I also have not done
in years.

Unlike riding a bike,
writing poems cannot
result in injury.

Unless you count
this papercut. 

God is a Poet

God is a poet. 
if you don’t believe me,
read the Psalms.

“But David wrote the Psalms,”
you would say. 
Yes, but who inspired 
such verses?

God spoke and it came to be.
Through His word, 
images
came to life. 

Who else could use words
to paint a picture,
but a poet? 

He is a bard above all,
singing songs,
played out in history. 

Rocking Chiar

What is it about a rocking chair 
that fills me with peace?

I slide in with ease,
Caressing the arms 
while I lean back.

Is it the gentle 
rocking motion?

Perhaps it’s the memory
That stirs
In my consciousness. 

O how I could
Simply thumb
The beads of my rosary

while I rock
gently 
into bliss. 

Spring

Fresh-mowed lawn
Grass stain smell

Birds singing hymns 
In budding branches

Crack of a bat
Pop-fly

Golf-clubs clank
Carts parade 
Toward tee-boxes

Pastel dresses
Worn for
The Paschal Feast

Soil soaks
The thaw and
 Melt

Nourish seeds
That are sown

Unravel garden hoses
Under the shade of sun hats 

Smile of a Junebug

I see in the summer grass
a Junebug smiling.

What could you be smiling for? 
What brings joy to you,
O Junebug?

Perhaps the warmth
and sunny days
bring forth that smile.

Could it be,
O Junebug,
that your day is here?

Is this the day
for you to arrive
among the scenes
of blue skies,
baseball,
and swimming pools?

Were you waiting
for the flower buds
to burst
like fireworks
in celebration of your return?

Smile away
little Junebug,
days are long,
bright, and cheerful.

Never forsake
your smile,
or your joy. 

Philosophy in Smoke

I live in a castle
surrounded by a city.
Fence, gate, and guard
secure inhabitants 
which I am one. 

Porch of concrete
carved into the castle
furnished with wicker benches
and glass tables. 

Ash trays
hold residue
of men’s thoughts
burned at the ends.

Late nights of tobacco haze.
Thoughts of liturgy, politics,
and wonders of the Heavenly gaze. 

Green turf 
simulating nature
among brick and stone.

Sirens in the distance. 

Momma

I’m a child again,
when I’m near you,
filled with awe
and comfort. 

My small hand you take
into yours
which is soft
and slender.

Your fingers
wrap around mine,
not in a vice,
but rather
like a warm hug
only mothers give.

Each step you take
send ripples
in the night sky,
as you lead me 
to your son’s 
presence. 

My eyes
are transfixed 
by your beauty. 
 
The stars
on your mantle
glisten, shimmer,
twinkle, like raindrops
in sunlight. 

Your smile is warm
and inviting,
like a lit hearth
of a cozy cabin
nestled in
the frigid,
snow-capped 
mountains. 

Dinner with Your Family

You invite me to your house
for dinner, after we play
on the hills near town.

Your mother welcomes me in
as one of her own.

I know my manners.
I wash my hands.
You wash my feet.

Fresh-baked bread
is all the welcome I need. 

We set the table for mother
as she brings out the food.
It’s not much:
just enough for one plate each. 

Your father arrives as the sun sets,
pulling out splinters from his hands 
between well-formed calluses. 

He greets us with a smile.
He greets mother with a tender kiss
on her forehead, as he grabs a plate
and a pot to lighten her load. 

You learned it from him
to give thanks
for the meal
before breaking the bread. 

We eat, we talk, we laugh. 
You father tells stories
for us only. 

I asked if I could stay…
forever.

Your parents say I’m
welcome anytime,
but I must go home
and share this love
with my own family.