JOHN TOIVONEN - POEMS

John Toivonen's poetry has been published in Norfolk Review, Midwest Review, and Paterson Literary Review. He published his most recent collection of poetry, Song After a Long Campaign, with Great Roots Press in 2015. He is an attorney who specializes in criminal defense.

​After the Shift

The glass torpedoes of straight whiskey sink
into the golden oceans in the pint.
They stand six abreast for the soldiers to drink
who for eight hours have clawed through the night.  
 
Now the mouths man the stations of bar wood
ready to fire fluid into the blood,
ready to crash glass bottoms on the bar.
With 80 proof they heal the wounds of war. 

​

My Cousin Jenny
​

My cousin Jenny bounces 
narcotic jumping beans on the steps,
fumble slaps the room-temp gin
back into awkward for a moment
flanker’s hands. 

Before the snap of 5 O’clock
the pre-night stirring movement starts
forward, back, then lateral cuts
of transparent, liquid glass. 

Swiftly gathering the numbing beans,
she smiles to admit a false start,
then huddles her hands at the bar
where she calls for the drink 
so those misdirecting poppy pills
obscure the lightning strike 
of drink down 110 yards of mouth
to end-point of the celebrating brain. 


​

Sestina Martini
​

I have shaken the smooth, liquid silver 
from the drinkers’ cauldron into the glass
that promises to drunkenly soothe 
my tired soul and sore veins with magic ice. 
With this perfect way, I know to cleanse 
the toxic day with the gentle, nightshade friend. 

This cool, saturating drink is the friend
who repays even my pores with silver
and scrubs away sad memories to cleanse
my thoughts until they are pure as glass. 
I can freeze unfounded thoughts with the ice
that holds the gentle vapors that always soothe.

Such a well-balanced drink finds a way to soothe
even the most antagonized friend. 
With vermouth joining just before the ice
my soul knows the luck inherent in silver. 
My lips kiss the gentle, liquid glass,
and then bruised thoughts are forced to a cleanse. 

Certainly, I can drink enough to cleanse,
and imbibe enough 80 proof gin to soothe
the fractured pain of this week’s shattered glass.
This weekend drink is the drinking friend
who never takes, but repays in silver
a cool cup of intoxicating ice. 

Sipping the gin and vermouth-soaked ice
is the most righteous and vibrant way to cleanse
a sad life of all but the drink’s silver.
The steady sipping promises to soothe
as can only the alcohol-infused friend
whose liquid love is as clear as glass

Other drinks offer only translucent glass
when set against my compassionate pure ice.
Both sophisticate and loving friend,
Martini, your combination will always cleanse
bitter thoughts. A few more ounces will soothe
the mind until it only senses silver.

I pour your flowing glass that you might cleanse
with a cool drunken ice that serves to soothe 
your friend who drinks in the bliss of silver.



​

​Racing Youth

The rippling and eager arms of youth
find themselves gripping the wheel of the car
to burn fuel on the post-midnight drive.
At such speed the rapid and attacking air
flows across foreheads as the other cars flash
past as we sprint that stretch away from the town. 

Councilmen charged that the insulted town 
had been assaulted by barbarian youth
who burned like motorized meteors in a flash 
so fast we could hardly see the blurred car. 
Who could know that we wanted only the air 
to streak through our hair as we drive.

Earnest racers clutch ruthlessly to the drive 
that demands we make ourselves masters of the town. 
With offerings to chance we praise the night air 
that marries the nights’ stars to the god of youth. 
We despair of our parents’ lumbering car 
that is surpassed by the muscled engine’s flash.

Taunting girls throw up their shirts to flash 
their breasts as we as we pop the clutch to drive 
by their begging affection in the car 
that rolls by like a slow statue in the town. 
This moment’s obscenity is the spark of youth 
that spills feminine lightning in the night air. 

What simple aches and ills can we air 
by flowing past closed markets in a flash? 
This random grabbing at streets in our youth 
erupts from our twisted and ambitious drive. 
With thunder engines we conquer the town 
to proclaim glory in a triumphant car. 

Buzzed from booze and cigarettes in our car 
we spit adventurous smoke into the air 
and honk and screech tires to hound the town 
with the menacing of our gear-shifting flash. 
With the crashing of discarded bottles on this drive 
we make a racing testament to youth. 

In this crowded teenage car we flash 
by the sore, simple town that spurs our drive 
to fuel with ecstatic air the heart of youth 

​

​Oblique Prayers

You used to say that you could find enough saints,
that they scraped slanting roofs like cats,
that they hung themselves with a horseshoe nail
from curtains and cupboards. The flash of a tail
stung like a snake punishing those who forgot
to gather all their deities before God. 
  
Your prayers sifted through the crates,
rummaged through the collection of stone heads.
You pursued the prized images,
the granite and ivory called idols, 
the golden warrior figurines 
that made mock battle with their curved swords,
and whose heads were covered in Chinese helmets. 
 
You asked how many Buddhas I owned,
and I let you hold each one of the Sumo men
who stomped on the window ledges.
You took to holding up these wrestlers
as faith talisman to threaten the con men
who spit a series of lies on the screen.
 
Seeing you disintegrate the video heads
and district mascots forced me to realize
that war is fought with what is at hand.
If there is no nearby cross to command
why not smite with the thundering abundance 
encased in the eastern patron of balance? 
 
I peered at pictures of burning leaves,
pondered Hebrew warriors who scaled walls,
saw gravity force careful ascension,
and knew that saints had strong legs for the climbing. 


​