John Haines

John Haines Poems

at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

It is made to be rolled down
a flight of stairs,
placed under a guilty hat,
or casually dropped into a basket

It may happen again - this much
I can always believe
when our dawn fills with frightened neighbors
and the ancient car refuses to start.

Slowly, without sun, the day sinks
toward the close of December.
It is minus sixty degrees.

Under the makeshift arbor of leaves
a hot wind blowing smoke and laughter.
Music out of the renegade west,

The Best Poem Of John Haines

If The Owl Calls Again

at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,

while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,

fulfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.

John Haines Comments

Ronald Lee Hagelund Hagelund 06 September 2021

ok i get it...breath of the klondike i can spy from my lower perch ADK

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