JONATHAN WIKE - POEMS

​I, Erasmus

Originally from North Carolina, Jonathan Wike lives in Nashville where he practices law and teaches English.  His poems have appeared in The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Blue Unicorn, and rue scribe.

​We all know what we want.  Why,
more than once while wandering I
have encountered canny Buddhists
poring over long to-do lists:
to do, to get, to have, to hold,
something to keep out the cold
along the path of least resistance. 
And in this corner are the Christians,
loudly praying for forgiveness
of lucre and many another weakness. 
And students of the Tao, most heedful
when talk turns to the one thing needful.
Libertarians, not surprisingly
letting live.  And socialists, enterprisingly
considerate of the thine and mine.
Austerity’s a bitch, and discipline
makes one less troubled by the taint of
cash.  But we want what we can’t have: 
A five-star spacious gold-draped room
with furnishings to die in.  Then a tomb
that makes the tourists ask their guides,
is there a pyramid besides
the ones here listed?  A brand new one?  He
must have had a pile of money!
But no.  We take what we can get:  Drive-thru
and take-out, frozen, fondue,
limp and left over—and that’s romance. 
Don’t ask about the food!  No chance
of sustenance but bread and ale,
one watered down, the other stale.
If there’s filet, it’s never mignon.
It’s just ground round, you can depend on
that.  If wine, expect domestic.
One’s car? At best a Crown Vic,
never the Continental.  Or, more like,
a Ford Fiesta.  Or a bike.
A lake boat from a second job.  A yacht? 
Fat chance, cap’n.   A time-share, not
a country home, with loud, intrusive
neighbors, who want to see how “youse” live.
 
So I, Erasmus, being no stooge
gave up my search and sought refuge
in the captivating House of Pies,  
where I met some decent guys,
and one who said his name was Jon
gave me brand-new white apron,
a cap and broom.  Here all receive, he
said, their just desserts.  Believe me,
this food is filling.  À la mode or carte— 
have just as much as your little heart
desires, and—what desires are for--
there’s always room for a little more.

The Sea Mammals’ Return
(A Fantasy)

​Frustrate with rare-took breaths and drinking dregs
And staring eye-to-eye with fish-eyed fish
And feeling they could gloss their lack of legs
The swimming mammals carried out a wish.
 
And one day came a-stumbling up the beach
And wallowed ‘cross the dunes and up the banks
Each showed a different drive, a different reach
Strange energies possessed their heaving flanks.
 
The tusky narwhal humped along a field
Inuring his tribe anew to air and sun
“Admittedly I’m difficult to wield
But life can be both difficult and fun.”
 
The great right whale went rolling up and down
Ecstatically he felt affinity
“And when I reach the crest I’ll be the crown
I think I love this hill, this hill is me.”
 
The great sea elephant ambled for the veldt
“I’ve come my tusk-proud brethren for to seek
(Among them I’ll look marvelously svelte)
I’ll learn what kind of cousin-tongue they speak.”
 
The rash sea-lion shouted, “Here I go!”
And forcibly made vertical his frame
He deemed his nimble fins a tippy-toe
And thought that hopping was a merry game.
 
But soon the narwhal’s sense began to reel
He was so homesick he could kiss an eel
And soon the right whale tired of being king
And being the only undulating thing
Soon the sea elephant did realize
He was called such only for his size
And soon the sea lion found he’d reached the point
Where, jointless though he was, he ached in every joint.
And one and all thought one walk was enough
And so they turned them with one mighty chuff
And one and all came ambling back to sea
Where they were welcomed most good-naturedly
Never again to leave it for the beach
Once having honored Nature with this breach.

 

​Scenes 6 through 8

​The marauder has no sins of
omission.  Silence speaks
nothing for him. 
 
We follow the social worker home.  She
drives a modest car.  The succulents
survive in a tray on a window sill.  Dishes
sometimes pile up in the sink.  She
listens to NPR and reads of souls
and other peoples. 
 
Scene 8 I am rewriting.  There is
no need for us to relive this again.  This
has been done to us all too often.

​“Two Slightly Distorted Guitars!”*

​Two slightly off guitars
Called you and me
We meet in random bars
Unmeetingly 
 
I talk on eggshells first
you take my cue
I say some things rehearsed 
But not with you
 
We make some plans to dine
Or sample beers
We talk about which wine
Goes best with tears
 
I say I’m glad you’ve come
You say that’s sweet
You take a taxi home
I take the street 

​The Bodie Light

​Five lights survey the Carolina coast.
Today last warnings sent they stand
Which once lent gleams into its custody:
Red Currituck, squat Ocracoke,
Old Lookout on its distant, lonely bar,
Tall Hatteras, the lamp that walked,
And north of it, off in a little field,
The faithful pennant of the Bodie Light,
That, though illuming shipways now no more,  
Still messages the insubstantial tide.
 
Keep watch, o light! The tide will wash forever.
Stand fast, o soul!  Eternity is yours.