JOHN J. RONAN - POEMS

​John J. Ronan is a poet, playwright, movie/TV producer, and journalist.  He has received national honors for his poetry and is a former NEA Fellow, Ucross Fellow, Bread Loaf Scholar, and Poet Laureate in Gloucester, MA, where his cable program The Writer’s Block with John Ronan is in its 27th year. Poems have appeared in Three Penny Review, New England Review, Southern Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, Folio, and many other publications.  Media productions have won a Telly, an Aurora Gold, a First for Education Programming from the NECTA, as well as other awards, and have been aired on PBS outlets.  In 2010 his book of poetry, Marrowbone Lane, was named a Highly Recommended selection by the Boston Authors Club.  A new volume, Taking the Train of Singularity South from Midtown, appeared in January 2017.  (TheRonan.org)

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​Dives: On Wellness          

​There was a certain rich man who was clothed
          in purple and fine linen...  Luke 16:19

​Sans sensitivity, the cravings are o.k.,
Seldom  affected by the latest allergy fad.
Those days, I’ll eat peanut butter freely:
Pb & j, Abba-Zabbas,
Reese’s, or dosed by spoon, a dab-and-jam
Pb & j – hold the bread.
No paranoid, epi-pen dread!
 
Early exposure to dander and dogshit generally
Assure immunity to snowflake anxieties:
Soy and safe places, tobacco nannies,
Dries, the curse of the dirtless clean cut.
Those nights, ignoring calorie cops, I’ll dine
On rye whiskey and red meat, caviar,
And après dessert, untroubled, smoke a cigar.
 

​Verité 

​An innocent start, the to and fro
Of borrowed tools, pies and preserves, 
warm welcomes by hosts or visitors.
 
A suburban summer: liturgy of the grill -
K-bobs and dogs, beer,
Games of charades, popcorn, film -
 
Midge and I, Deb and Rob
A naive rom-com of chatter
And laughs, sound track rock.
 
Only now and then hedged
By humdrum - lawn care
And the kids, diets, mortgages, marriage,
 
Gentle collisions out of a blue
Guessing silence, and tipsy turns
Of genre to simpler equipment, truth.
 
Never a question of blame, unless
Hollywood itself, bluff constructor
Of love and tinsel, its necessary distance.
 
 

​They Do

​Can you imagine they do?
 
The arid librarian or stock broker, your cold,
Distant surgeon, his no-nonsense nurse,
Proud prelates, habited nuns in heat,
The unsmiling teller, morose jumpsuit couples,
Your fence neighbor, a common scold, weeding…
 
The eyes rolled white, the self given
Over to minutes of innocence, the two-backed
Seizure and trespass, urgent under, on top,
In secret, unique illusion of blank gasp
And spasm, don’t stop, don’t stop…
 
They do.  It’s just not you.
 
 

​Nothing You Need

​Main Street’s a Cheese Shoppe,
Galleries, and a bright brew pub
Featuring pumpkin harvest ale,
Free-range chicken, and kale.
A retro pharmacy with show globes.
The state bank.  Beyond Bordeaux.
Your candles-only.  Your soap-only:
Bricks spiked with pumice and coffee,
Angles cut  in the chic but cruel
Way that marks artful vertu.
                                    
Nothing you need.  No hardware,
No grocery or dime store.
No lumber, gravel, or paint,
Nothing to suggest sweat, like the ancient
Ford Escorts and Crown Vics
That appear weekday mornings to construct
Or plumb, clean and leaf blow.
Jesús.  Mary Kay.  Futbol!    
No Pilates or favorite famines,
Peace on Earth, blissful chickens.
 
In the strip mall south of town,
Distressed denim, cell phones,
And our single Big Box, next
To a ten-screen  - triple X,
Noir at night, G matinees.
A JP and gaming arcade,
The Beer ‘n Booze drive-thru.
Free piercing with large tattoos,
Urgent Care and Candy’s Bar,
A copy center, the Mattress Mart.