Three Poems

William Doreski

What John Donne Did

Let’s embroider the autumn sky

into a sampler to hang 

on a cracked plaster wall inside

a house so haunted no one

younger than death dares enter.

Aren’t you tired of reading Donne

together? His language warps

the feral acts of love and scores


wounds the ego can’t process.

Handicrafts like embroidery

or carving runes into hardwood

better suit our advancing age.

That haunted house looms. It’s real

enough, and just down the road

beyond the marsh. Exploring it

changed my life more than reading


John Donne did. Each room featured

a smell, a touch, a tiny sound.

Nothing to see but the pattern

of cracks, the glint of broken glass,

a collapsed armchair stuffed with mice.

You refused to enter without

some high-tech weapon capable

of denaturing reckless spirits.


Now on Thanksgiving a hint

of warmth entices us outside.

We could visit that haunted house

and decide on which wall to hang

the sampler that will immortalize

November’s opalescent sky

by rhyming it with mottoes

stitched in abstract shades of blue.

Today at Pemaquid

On the day after Thanksgiving

the corrugated slope of rock

at Pemaquid features black ice

that dips tourists into the waves.


Battered to sacks of bone-shard,

the bodies resemble jellyfish.

You claim this isn’t happening,

no one’s here but us. And we aren’t 


foolish enough to venture

onto the naked rock where lost

images of summer linger,

the lighthouse leering into blue


no random thoughts can penetrate.

A spruce border wheezes in wind

the color of old wool blankets.

I once kept such a blanket tucked


in the trunk of my car in case

someone wanted to picnic with me.

No one did. Not even you

would sprawl on army surplus


to share a bottle of cheap wine

and do the Omar Khayyam thing.

Today at Pemaquid the slash

of bedrock looks crueler, sharpened


by flinty skies fresh from Spain.

The parking lot stands empty,

the dust settled by cold autumn rain.

The light freeze is impersonal


but definite, dancing under us

with aristocratic little steps

that could lead to endless sea-views

we’d never be able to shed.

Our Usual Holiday Plans

We’re breaking down with our cars—

gear and tooth, fuel pump, liver.


We should go electric and plug

our vehicles and ourselves


into one dedicated outlet. 

Late autumn promises gifts


not only through pagan holidays

but from the acutely angled light


flattering with long, tall shadows

we inhabit with childish glee.


Yes, the Christmas season flops

at our front door and implores us.


But we don’t sing carols, don’t ignite

an indoor tree with chrome décor,


don’t reap presents shipped from China,

don’t mingle with distant relatives


with breath like sweaty wool socks.

Instead we roam the rackety woods,


wearing orange in case of rifles.

We refuse to read Charles Dickens


either aloud or to ourselves.

We brush our teeth and hair more


vigorously than usual.

We’ll stay sober on New Year’s Eve


in case the neighbors catch fire

and need us to extinguish them.


Our cars may or may not start today.

Their expressions, bland as toads’,


offer no clues. Driving to town

isn’t a definitive act                                         
       

but rather a dress rehearsal 

for a winter of plaintive moments


when snowfall panics the landscape

and town plows growl with thick men


sipping coffee at the wheel.

Then driving becomes adventure


and our depleted bodies will knot

into muscle tough as vinyl,


bracing us against collision

with the freshly empurpled sky.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.