Richard Jones


The Trampoline


I would like to say something in defense
of the universe,
but where to begin?
Perhaps it might be wise
to start with the word trampoline,
from the old middle-low German
trampen, to stamp.
My neighbors recently purchased a trampoline
and placed it in their backyard
for their children.
When I sit at my writing desk
and look out the window,
I see above the hedge two small figures,
a brother and sister, rising, falling,
their faces beatific, rapturous.
I’m reminded of Jacob’s dream
and the ladder
which reached all the way to heaven.
That’s where my neighbors’ kids believe they are,
suspended in the air like angels.


Wisteria


While lounging on the porch this morning
a vague feeling of grief comes over me
until I look overhead at the lavender wisteria,
an explosion of powdery blooms hanging
from the pergola in clusters heavy as grapes,
teeming vines I must tirelessly prune back
lest their joy spread and take over the garden
and climb the steep roof to the high windows,
those abundant purple blossoms all rejoicing.



photo: Sarah Jones

Richard Jones is the founder and editor of Poetry East. For the last 45 years he has curated its many anthologies, including The Last Believer in WordsOrigins, and Bliss. Two of his recent poetry books—Avalon and The Minor Key—are from Green Linden Press. A new volume, Passport, is forthcoming in March 2025.

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