Five Poems by John Harold Olson

 

Sloppy Drunk On Fremont Street

 

One of the bartenders

opened her white music binder

for the pianist, and started singing 

into the the mic.

A shadow moved off her face

deep feelings,

her tough life

there in her voice

like ghosts. 

Like the smell of Fall.

Heartbreaking, frankly,

(pouring another vodka).

Is it necessary to compliment an artist?

“You were great.”

Stuffing a ten spot in her tip jar.

Voice from the control impulse desk in my brain.

“What was THAT all about. why did you do THAT?”

Because, I  replied, I’m in drunk love. 

A few clicks from sloppy drunk,

but still true to the love,

probably.

Doggos

 

Like humans,

Dog World has mean dogs,

fighting and snarling,

and best friend dogs,

sharing their

last scrap and who know

where the puddles are.

 

The sleeping stray doggo

Dreams of quiet and food

and love.

The escaped fighter dreams

of the warm litter

And Mother nearby,

Like a mountain range.

Just like us.

Cinecitta 

 

Drape your dreams

Over the umbrella pines

like a tent against

The sun.

 

Brutalist buildings

Softened by art

Claudia Cardinale

The muse

her espresso

 

Fellini

alone with his visions

problems

late

Stage 5 is home

As long as he makes money.

 

Actors melting

Beneath umbrellas

 

“Claudia,

Smile,

and come down 

the little hill

like a Roman deer.”

Denton, Texas

 

Land is leafy, green and hot.

The sun dry fence line

with yellow evening primrose

purple prairie clover,

and wild chamomile parading in the sun.

Fragrances cast like spells.

 

Little horses come up to the fence

for baby carrots, and 

friendly, happy

Follow me snorting down the fence

As I leave for my world.

 

Goodbye, I said.

I love you too.

Notes On Poetry

(Can You Still Go, Jim?)

 

Me

I report on moments

 

Other poets demand 

serious consideration.

The poesy is a wall of 

20 ton blocks

 

poems 

About heartbreak and

Emotional real estate

and relationship power.

 

Here’s something curious,

I read a serious poem by

A poet taken seriously,

And he called another poet “not that good”,

his friend.

Why be a dick in a poem?

 

Another poet famous

for his coarse, boozy life

declared he couldn’t stand it

when a fan asked him to 

read their work. Even the manuscript

bugged him.

 

What’s this?

You either want everyone to be a poet

or just yourself.

 

There are standards in the world.

 

The knock on me as

A carpenter was that I was slow.

Jesus would have been pissed,

waiting there in the sun.

 

Jim Thorpe was asked, in

the injustice of his downfall,

“Can you still go, Jim?”

 

“Just give me the ball,” Jim said,

In the field next to the switchyard.

 

His moment of poetry in the ruins

of his life.

John Harold Olson - Is a retired Special Education teacher in Las Vegas. Transitioning to being a hospice volunteer.