June Poet John Homan

Waffles

I stood in the kitchen, alone in the house as my wife went for a walk and I filled the sink with dirty dishes and hot lime scented Ajax dish soap. For some unknown reason, like Brando screaming "Stella!" or Sting growling "Roxanne!" I inflated my lungs, filling the diaphragm completely like Mrs. Van Arsdale had taught me in voice lessons and let out my own shout..."Waffles!!!"

This was not some clipped two syllables, like a thirty second ad for Eggo's chocolate chip variety, no it was
long and lusty, deep and war-like. The syllables extending to fill four to five seconds. It was like Walt Whitman's "Barbaric YAWP" echoing through the house. Before you laugh at my word choice, this is not based simply on my devotion to a breakfast food. The word itself feels good in my mouth to speak. The arrangement of the "W" that begins softly and the open mouthed "A" sound that gains volume and intensity before being joined to the
hard "F" and finally being tamed by the ending of the final consonants of "L" and "S".  It feels like a firework shooting from within my throat.

As words that one shouts, it is not so different from shouts of "Freedom!", "Victory!" or "Liberty!" or even the Mexican revolution grito of "¡Tierra y Libertad!” It's a shout, it's a mantra, it's a battle cry-a sacred utterance,
something you love, it's a group of words believed to have spiritual or psychological powers. It had been awhile since I had shouted. A corporate life of emails and phones, driving the White Buick to work and church, mowing the lawn, trimming the weeds, washing the dishes. My life tends toward quietness and I see all the unfairness, the hatred, the prejudice and the selfishness in the world. There's anger in me that I can't solve it, I can't fix it, I feel like sometimes all I can do is shout…"Waffles!!!" Waffles aren't partisan. Waffles aren't prejudiced. Waffles aren't predators. 

Waffles are a symbol of a world without hatred and selfishness. Malty batter cooked crispy, slathered in Butter, baptized in a sweetness of sap boiled down from an ancient tree, joined with bacon or sausage, salty sweet and a cold glass of milk….I know it's crazy...but I think waffles can bring us together.

Tired of Commas

I'm tired of commas.

I'm tired of lists.

no one is satisfied with who they are.

being human is never enough.

singular definition just won't do.

you must be more than simply you

not just an artist or writer, oh no…

you've got to know the whole story

the complete view of me from all sides?

Am I a mother, father, sister or brother?

Democrat, Socialist, Republican or Communist

Catholic, Lutheran, Buddhist, or Muslim

gender and preference

pronouns and reference

social class and privilege 

even the circumference of my ass

all matters more than the essence

being a human isn't enough

though we all have a spirit inside

instead we check off all the boxes

comparing where we match up

before mingling can commence.

can't I be your friend?

don't both our hearts beat?

isn't that enough to communicate,

our pains and pleasures,

must have some similarities?

could the fascists bowl with the socialists?

could the West Texas Rednecks barbecue with the East Coast Liberals?

could the Muslim and the Jew eat a meal of pierogies with onions?

why can't we put aside faith and politics

long enough to actually know those we think we hate?

Why I Swim

Every morning I swim laps at the pool.

It's because I have no idea what I'm doing.

The world makes no sense, things aren't fair.

I'm not satisfied with my own performance

in so many ways.

But in the pool, I struggle and succeed;

moving swiftly through space and time,

feet and arms propelling me

across the lane, time and time again,

below is my friend, the thick black line.

Every lap without stopping,

every stroke, every kick, every gasping breath;

bending my knees, pushing off from the wall,

swimming through a cloud of bubbles

left over from my last lap gives me hope.

Lemon Frosting

Tired from mowing I sit at the kitchen table with a sweating glass of iced tea before me. In my hands rests a half empty container of Duncan Hines Lemon Frosting and a spoon. Three spoonfuls later, sublime tartness, sweetness and the silky fat that binds it all lingers on my tongue.

I imagine changing quickly into black clothes & shiny shoes. Stowing the frosting in a red Playmate cooler,
boarding the South Shore to Chicago. Haughty condescension, a vaguely European accent, and name dropping grants access to the three star Michelin restaurant as the mystery chef bringing ten servings of an exotic dessert for one night only.

Madagascar Spiced Lemon Mousse, dusted with ginger, drizzled with raspberry mint syrup, garnished with sweet basil, finished with a sprinkling or coarse ground Pink Himalayan salt. A tiny sculpted portion is presented on a shiny square black plate. It's fifty dollars a plate without the demitasse of espresso.

Instead I sit here in ripped jeans, grass stained shoes, enjoying it without reservations or pretense.

What My Dad Left Me

My dad's living body is no more.

Cremated and spread to the wind.

I find myself  looking at what he left.

Some silver coins,

bolo ties with turquoise stones,

a Savage  twenty-two rifle

passed down from his father,

and his personal study bible.

I took his new wallet on a chain.

It annoyed my mother to no end

and now my wife hates it too.

I proudly carry on the tradition of

husbands not letting themselves

becoming overly civilized.

His pocket knife with three blades

of stainless surgical steel.

Like my dad, I always carry a knife,

and a handkerchief in my back pocket.

A man is always prepared for

what life may bring his way.

His hands shook with a familial tremor

that both I and my sisters inherited.

Thick forearms the same as his,

a full head of hair after fifty

but I've got my mom's butt.

A dry sense of humor

valuing kindness above conflict

making space for different ways

of seeing a complicated world.

Valuing truth expressed best

through love.

The Rights of Monkeys

What gives me the right to speak truth?

Should only winners speak?

TED talkers with gelled hair,

their PowerPoint screens expressing cleverness.

My life in disarray.

Repeating bonehead moves.

A sock drawer not meeting your standards.

But a hopeful vision came to me,

the Spirit of Truth hovering over the waters,

tohu and bohu,

a most elegant mess.

Upside down, inside out,

God’s best expressed in mediocre vessels.

An accountant plays Für Elise on the cello.

A line drive snatched out of the air by the kid chosen last.

Poetry by the kid who flunked grammar.

Love shown best through those least worth.

Monkeys typing Shakespeare,

foolish things confound the wise.

truth, love and justice thriving in the wasteland

outside the fortified walls of Gotham,

tarnished brass playing the sweetest song of all...

Lest the monkeys have no way to irritate the impressive

New Management  

Coyotes roaming the streets of San Francisco,

finding their ways into the classic vinyl shops.

Raccoons construct a pirate radio station

from the shuttered electronics warehouse.

They build it in the abandoned pigeon coop

on the roof of the apartments where Kerouac lived.

A possum in Wayfarers spins classic jazz;

Charlie Parker and Vince Guaraldi on AM 1270.

Foxes and rabbits dance in the moonlight

Predation unnecessary with so much trash to eat

Poodles are safe since the coyotes discovered Carl's Jr.

Moonlight howls blend with hard bop as the fog rolls in .

John Homan is a poet and percussionist from Bend, Oregon. He is a graduate of Indiana University. 

His work has appeared in Chiron Review, Former Cactus, and Misfit Magazine among others. 

He is the founder of WordPlay Open Mic Night in Elkhart, Indiana where he lives with his wife 

and two cats, Henry and Lucy.
John’s twitter account is @john_homan and his website is: https://about.me/john_homan

Collected poems are on Homan’s new album called "Hobo Open Mic Night" found on Soundcloud -

https://soundcloud.com/beatnik-for-jesus/sets/hobo-open-mic-night