JOHN TUTTLE - POEMS

John Tuttle is a writer and photographer who loves beauty and truth. His work has been featured by publications such as Blue Marble Review, Drunk Monkeys, Scars Publications, Culture Wars Magazine, Interstellar Flight Press, and The Good Men Project. He has also served as a judge for several anthologies from Ageless Authors.

​A Crappie; a Bluegill; Three Catfish

Five years
Of age in this life
Five hours away
From Mom and Dad
With Grandpa and Grandma then
At the lakehouse
There
On the lake
Five fish
Was my first catch.

​

Coming Together
​

Ours
Is
A love so passionate
Now fiercely enflamed
It fuses us together
No particle or property
Between these bodies
Conformed
The puzzle gradually
Coming together
Solving itself.

​

Luminaries
​

On a dank blue eve
Of a summer past
My eye reflected
Luminosities from
The fireflies
A host of passing candles
Insect fairies – 
Authentic and true
Ascending on high
To make dreams a reality
For them
For us also
And time innumerable, perpetual
Leading on to
Sparkling felicity
Above the stars
Beyond the ladder
And fallen tower
Past the refractive lunar body
Into the deepness
Which is a myriad
Of mysteries
Of answers yet unattained
Lamps of an elder era
Marking the time of night
Signaling the climatic encounter
Spheres of burning helium
In the cold extent of space
Solar globules of gas
Making up patterns
These floating gems
Forming the lighted spangles
Of scarlet, of gold
In the jewel-studded, stellar skies
No atmosphere binding
No gravity claiming
No net there 'neath
The haze of epiphany, epitome
Only a submersion
Into the void...
But lo!
What a comfort to me
Are they
Those winged damsels of the night
Who shine their brightness
For my guide
And my delight.

​

Memorial
​

The memoranda of today
Are memories when
The day after next
They become mementos

Unlocked from a time capsule
A bonanza, a hoard, of emblems
Of bygone tears
Of sorrows and of joys

​

Tasting Culture
​

The aroma of sustenance
And culture arises
Wafting in from out of the kitchen
Making its way to me.

Always something happening,
Something cooking in Mama's mind
Which when it gets to a dish
One best not be late.

We help set the table
Placing cutlery and cup
And vased tulip-snippets
For a taste in vintage ambiance.

An artisan of seasonings
Of succulent tastes
And fillers too
Our mother never wastes.

Dishes and drinks
Of sassafras and succotash
Of Salisbury and salmon
Of frittatas and Flamiches.

So we taste the world
From the comfort of our home
And sense those things
Foreign to the buds of our tongues.

Though they seldom speak
In languages unknown to them
They are always tasting
A dish native to another nation.

Here our stomachs and spirits
Are filled with the good things
The family offers to others;
The hearts of all are made to sing...