Monday, June 25, 2012

2 poems by poet and artist, John E. Rice

John E. Rice was born in Galveston in 1941. Rice is a writer and artist living and working in Houston but crossing the causeway onto The Island with some regularity. He has worked in medical research, horticulture and the maritime industry. His published works have appeared in TEXAS Magazine, literary magazines – print and on line, poetry anthologies, Texas Poetry Calendar 2005 through 2010, as well as other publications.  Rice was a juried poet at Houston Poetry Fest 2007 and 2010. His artworks are in several private collections around the world. Rice is president of Resk Maritime Resources, Inc., which provides commercial ship management, logistics and other services to the Maritime Industry.  He is married, has four children, four grandchildren and a wife who tolerates his vagaries and provides first-read criticism of his writing. 

John E. Rice is a member of Net Poets Society and has been a featured reader at FPL Poetry Series readings. 

6.6 at 1:00AM

Drumroll in the dark,
auto alarms warble and wail
            like banshees. I lurch on liquid legs,
                        pull on pants, stagger
on fluid floor, hold hands
           with bathroom doorframe. Rooms
on Piso 10 are rocking boxcars, a train
           on twisting tectonic tracks, a trip
                       into forever for which tickets are never sold,
finally slowing
           slowing      slowing
                       click   click     click        stops.
The barking dog goes quiet, alarms
are silenced.
Tiptoe to the window: just above
the mountain, the moon mocks
with its amber last-quarter smile
while the Southern Cross offers
no consolation.

John E. Rice
Santiago, Chile
April 17, 2012

Love Poem Number 157

One hundred fifty-seven Shakespeare wrote,
sonnets, that is, and plays, as well.
Millay and Plath set sonnets afloat,
and Ada writes them using Excel.
Petrarch, Milton, Spenser, Rosetti,
each one of them had his sonnet-say.
They tossed them about like so much confetti,
but each one writing his own unique way.
So many sonnets are songs of love,
some reciprocal, some unrequited,
lovers become metaphors: a rose, a dove,
a deer, a pair of swans forever united.
But we are not metaphors, don’t you see –
if there were no you then I wouldn’t be me.

                                  John E. Rice
                                  February 15, 2009

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