Cairn - James Thomas Fletcher - Bog

From the author of Poems from Terra, landmarks, monuments, and tombstones along the road of life. Meditations on nature, love, longing, war, and being. PRAISE FOR JAMES THOMAS FLETCHER:
A penetrating and provocative smorgasbord. His poems sing and inform in thoughtful, non-conforming, wonderful ways. Life's harmonies coupled with a realistic sprinkling of irony and brilliant dissonance. An existential celebration of life. From intimacies of love to an explanation of the universe, by way of a walk on the noir side ... Fletcher spotlights the quirks of human longing and the enigmas of memory. I have always favored the slow sipping of a refreshing libation mixed with a perfect blend of romance and magic ... adorned with the lemon-lime twist of macabre fantasy. The breadth of topics is impressive. [Fletcher's] depth of thought, humor, love for words, and poetic skill made the book a joy and a challenge to read. Humor, passion, reverence, irreverence; a connection to people, a reflection on life and self, an exploration of ideas. The tantalizing hints and allusions made me want to have the poet in the same room so that I could plumb for more. Highly personal, experiential.... free flowing exuberance of the visual. The intensity of feeling is superior.... Their complexity is almost painful.... I was moved, confused, astounded, curious, excited. A 'Fletcher' adds feathers to arrows to make them fly true. James Thomas Fletcher's poems ... fly straight to a reader's heart. Fun, intelligent, trenchant. Explore these shorter samples for a glimpse into Cairn. BLUE LAKE
thunderstorms rage outside
the window and a young heron
sits in the middle of my lake like a blue asparagus
on the back of a sun
drenched iguana OBSIDIAN Obsidian.
The word lies immovable on the page.
A boulder among pebbles
of words. Poets unearth it
as an ancient coin found beneath
the sand or sprinkle it
like a rare dark jewel.
Its thud-heavy
weight attracts the eye like light
to a black hole. TUCKPOINTING When no one's looking
the ivy vine slips
its feet into the mortar
between the line of scruffled
bricks, tucks itself
into the cracks and waits
creviced for winter.