5 Poems John Lorenc





Pent up summer



Think of the dog and you,

the owner,

matching sweaters,

the floor getting wetter and wetter.



Don’t think, “do,”

says Du Fu.



Do take the dog

for a walk in the park

and do snark all you want

on the lark, the life you’re living is

really yours,

and not destined for the past lives

of Shirley McClain. Blame me



if your dog runs off and changes his name.

But do take the dog

and you off that leash,

made you restrain from trying

anything new without straining over-

heated breathes.






Companion Addition



Writing this.

Writing this, and a companion asks is

That about me?



Re-writing this.

Re-writing this to exclude the onion so this

Can include that companion. Addition:



Negative 1 onion, plus one asking, is the percentage

Of that about me.

No. Yes. Maybe we, figuring in the tip

From our tongues.







Word/Not a Word with You



Grassly, not a word with You. Yes,

Old dry cut grass makes a nice pancake.



Crassly is, yes. Prasterly, no word

With You. The past of a pastor named Larry.



Pastorally, yes. Wisterly is

Not a word with You. Wisteria like viney.

Westerly is a place.



I think pressly, like to press, is not a word unless

It is Presley, the singer. Not a word with



You. Crispery, no? good? Prissy, pricey, prosy is

Away of writing. His word with You, tressed, no,



But tresses, clearly yes. Curly, a word with You. like

Furly, like early, squirrelly is how your feeling



This morning. Moe hungry, stomach feeling

Tressed, or hungry? No, not a word with You. Nes.











First Story



Sit-ting. It is

Writ-ten.

Lis-ten.

Adam’s ap-ple is miss-in.

Eve is a lit-tle up-

set.

In the mid-dle of the gar-

den.

Snake, War-den of the Gar-

den.

Sitting in the middle of the garden,

Adam’s apple is missing. Eve is a little

Upset. Snake, the warden of the garden

Is sitting in the middle of the garden.



It is written.









Mr. P, without comment



Redemption lost after greatness

Found. Mysterious mounds of earth

Were found in Mr. P’s yard.

He looks upon them like lumps.

Marred his grass; Mr. P had words with them

Like lard, hole,

And ass. His mother, who

Still lived with him told him not to sass.

Mother, he said, these mounds ruin

My flowing green grass. Your grass would grow,

She said, you know, if you were to go to mass. Mounds

Of earth don’t come up for no reason, she said.

Mr. P let her comment pass

Without comment on the spreading metastasis.