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Jon C. LaPree
is a native of Rochester, Minnesota, now relocated to Seattle,
Washington where he resides with his wife Mary and son Samuel.
He has
previously been published in the periodical Streets and Towers.
His poetry is diverse, including ventures into both carefully structured
and carefully unstructured forms; nature, pathos and humor are
particularly inspirational topics. He has also written several short
stories, none of which has been published as of this time. He continues
to write at a modest rate and intends to continue to publish his
writing, including a book of poetry in the near future. His interest
outside poetry are as varied as literature, crows and frisbees.
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Etherday
Jon
C. LaPree
And
God did see the butterfly
that never should have been.
He wiped his eyes of tearful mirth
and never laughed again.
The owl who sleeps on feathered clouds
does seldom else but fly.
"One day when you are wise," he says,
"I'll show you how to die."
The road up north is free to dream
the stones to tiny birds,
and never once mistook my tears
of wonderment for words.
The dream I ate, all smooth and white,
still in my hands, a cup.
The wind would steal it all except
nobody wound it up.
The road down south was lavender
before it turned so blue.
And even now the ice won't break
unless you fall straight through.
The owl, before the first dream came
devoured all my fear.
"I'll built my nest," he said to me,
"beyond the words you hear."
God flicked his wrist and cast the stars
across the nighttime sky,
and disappeared before we had
a chance to say goodbye.
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©
2002 by John LaPree
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Volume
III Special Issue I