The Nature of Man . . . Continued: Poetry of Earth’s Flora, Fauna, and the Human Condition

By John L. Breska

The journey in this book continues on where The Nature of Man left off, with poetic topics on both nature and man's imprint from his life. John L. Breska has picked pieces he felt continued his trail through the seasons of our existence. From tattoos to the bee, from gratitude to prayer, Breska has attempted to address those subjects he felt he has known in some capacity. His hope is that you can identify with them, as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: May 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666773972

John L. Breska

John L. Breska is a retired, thirty-year magazine printer from Quad/Graphics in Wisconsin. He served in the United States Army from 1968 to 1970 and was a scout dog handler in Vietnam. He has authored Of Christmas, of Winter, a collection of poems.

Book preview

Introduction

This collection of poetry is a sequel to my second book of poetry, The Nature of Man. I continue my poetic journey with topics which touch the inner person, such as life, death, worry, peace, and faith. Other pieces are connections to the flora and fauna of our planet. Then there are poems which, hopefully bring a smile or heal a broken heart.

In today’s world, we have the tendency to seldom look up to see what is happening all around us. We are connected deeply to the electronic world. At times, we need to take pause, as we take in the beauty of the world and digest what is happening within our inner being. It is my hope that you, the reader, find some fruit between these pages which might nurture your soul.

Words

Hold thy tongue indignant mouth,

lest you’re taken for a fool,

by those syllables spewed out,

in anger, come those words so cruel

Remain objective in your manner,

saying less than needs be said,

and disassociate your gap,

with that which you have called a head

Pause . . .

then tread through thoughts that tempt,

on the tip of all that wags,

knowing once it reaches ears,

it’s passed beyond and cannot hide

Choose your words like dueling sabers,

more a craft than butchery,

learn this lesson and be hopeful,

in your verbal artistry

Zipper

teeth engage upward

disengage as well, downward

smooth operation

Tattoo

It enters in to being where the canvas once was bare,

it takes its form from thought to hand with patience, love, and care,

it slips beneath the surface, but it does not hide from sight,

expressions of the spirit, whether dark or whether light

It takes a willing subject and an artist, never less,

a vision or some drawing that the body need express,

the soul cries, recognition, for it wishes to be seen,

and ink forms the transition, making real what was a dream

The needle dances easy as it kisses your soft flesh,

an outline builds on canvas as the skin and pigment mesh,

and yes, it burns like fire, as new love does for the heart,

for all of your tomorrows you’ve become a work of art

No whim can do one justice for the image does remain,

so, choose no fickle project you might someday call a stain,

but rather go without my friend, until you know what’s true,

that this, once floating through your mind appears to be just you

Vertigo

dizzy as I stand

falling down the only cure

it taunts when I rise

The Lighthouse Keeper

Up the spiral staircase climbed the keeper of the light,

steadily he moved, a measured race against ship’s sight,

this for, but to start the flame,

guiding ships across the plane,

keeping safe the cargo, Captain, and the valued crew,

from the many perils that were hidden beneath view

Lonely was the duty of the man who watched the sea,

and the ships that came to pass into eternity,

for their presence moved along,

left or right and then, just gone,

faded corks that bobbed and danced out on the waters green,

‘til he set the spyglass down, for nothing could be seen

Pipe burned slowly as the evenings passed by until dawn,

as the sun began to rise, the keeper stretched with yawn,

clangs the buoy for morning tide,

keeper stands and looks with pride,

little chop upon the sea with skies of blue and white,

the time had come to get some sleep before another night

Hannah Warner

(Blue Mountain Lake)

Way above Blue Mountain Lake where eagles filled the sky,

a camp was built, a small retreat, where one might sit and eye,

the many islands that enhanced the water’s far away,

for Hannah Warner, this put closure on each summer day

October seventh, in the year of nineteen hundred four,

a lot was purchased for two hundred dollars, nothing more,

to build a cabin there, above the hotel just below,

where guests of the Blue Mountain House had watched the eagle’s show

Tis said, the place on Merwin Hill was one fond gift of love,

but what remains is just a cold, stone chimney, high above,

yet years before when life was simpler than it seems is now,

sweet laughter in the wilderness reigned under every bough

I visit on occasion, looking up those concrete stairs,

where Hannah and her husband William tossed away their cares,

today the forest has reclaimed those steps that climbed the hill,

the weeds and trees have overtaken history at will

Green moss and lichen wrap the staircase in a soft embrace,

the wooden railings are no longer part of this old place,

and still, I swear I hear a voice speak softly over pine,

she says that, This was always GOD’s and never was just mine

A mist hangs on the northern slope, an overlook still stands,

shored up with timbers set there by a dozen or more hands,

those spirits all have passed their way to glory, years ago,

but I saw Hannah just this morn, I thought you all should know

The Lonesome Graveyard Blues

My thoughts fall silent from my mind,

and come to rest on Father’s grave,

a mix of thoughts; some harsh, some kind,

a sea of thought, wave after wave

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