Three Poems by Ron Jevaltas

by Ron Jevaltas


Wind Born Chaff (Auld Lang Syne)

30, 31:

two small bearings in the eyes of

a tiger listening


to the warm while the 

world’s gone viral. Pine faggot,

iridescent in


its nascent checking,

speaks. And they’ll real out the year

in a montage of


sound bites and fleeting

images. And I’m supposed

to wax nostalgic


and rheumy eyed. The

more things change the more they stay

the same. It growls as


it hungrily scans

the cold. I adjust flaming

logs to hold more. Blue,


tinted yellow, licks

the Pyrex as I close this

box of Cracker Jacks.




I came , I saw, I

conquered. That basket of sweets

in the faculty

room , my Rubicon. An

old man, bent on relevance,

encircled by the

guffaws of 40

sophomores unwittingly

searching for Brutus,

endures. The only

thing that’s changed in 50+

years is me. A life-

time of one campaign

after another –

just this battle left.


verge of sugaring


faux spring is a soft

wet kiss on the cheek of a

winter thats grown old


belickened they strut

crusted snow with a mountains 

patience we envy


little harkens but

highway croon and pawl snick of

pregnant gutter drops


pan held islands of

snow melts away last years grime

steam in rehearsal


blackened yet unspent

doused birch poles share more than

acrid confluence


twin doors now swing clear 

cabin portal to vying 

but lovely seasons


and we accustomed

to each other’s rough edges 

find our locked hands smoothed