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[ 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]
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Hay Wains
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They sit, a long-married couple,
side by side, in the unkempt, dusty
grass of the field, which they have
forgotten. The field has not forgotten
them. Neither has a crow, a dark,
folded thing, like a thought, perched
on the red one’s shoulder. They have
the quiet of things that have been
put away for good, the resignation
of the neglected but dignified old.
A chain, rusted into a circle, sleeps
in the weeds like a loyal dog. And
the air around them, full of the slow
humming life of roots and insects
and small burrowing animals, moves
in and through the empty spaces
where their souls used to be.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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Better Glue
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His son wanted to fly. His father
knew how to make wings. He said,
We won’t use wax this time. He used
glue. Strong glue. Industrial glue.
The kind they use for airplanes.
The son said, What about the sun?
The father said, The glue will hold.
The son said, What about the sky?
The father said, The glue will hold.
So the son put on the wings.
The father said, Don’t fly too low.
Don’t fly too high. The son said,
Don’t worry old man. The glue
will hold. And it did. The son flew.
And the father watched. And he
flew. And he flew. And the father
watched and watched. The son flew
away. He got smaller and smaller.
And the father watched until he
could no longer see the son in the far
distance. He is probably still flying
now, the son. The father sighed.
He almost wept. Perhaps he did weep.
No one knows for sure. The glue held.
The wings held. The son didn’t. He
wasn’t supposed to. It was good glue.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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The Difference
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The breeze is what we invite.
It comes in the window with
the scent of newly cut grass
or yesterday’s rain. We smile
at the breeze because we have
asked it in. We want it to stay
a while. The wind is different.
It’s a bad relation. It has a record.
It comes with a warning. It rattles
the glass. It has something to say
that we would rather not hear.
The wind is not invited. We do not
smile at the wind. We can’t. It
would wipe it right off our faces.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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USE
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The woman at the hardware store
said, “Can I help you?” as I wandered
down an aisle of paint brushes. “No,
thank you,” I said. What I really needed
was a different kind of brush, one that
could cover the cracks in my memory.
She moved on to another customer,
someone who actually knew what they
came for. But the question stuck with
me, a fleck of paint on a thumb. “Can I
help you?”Help with what? The years
piled up, drying paint cans on the shelves
of my brain, and none had the right color.
Some were labeled, The Summer of ‘82.
Others, My Daughter’s Laugh. Most were
just a vague, unhelpful shade, like “off-
white” or “beige.” I picked up a brush,
a cheap one and held it up to the light.
It felt useless. I felt useless. I bought it
anyway just for the sake of having done
something. “I see you found what you
were looking for,” she said as I paid.
“Yes,” I said. Her smile was useful.
It was exactly what I was looking for.
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J. R. Solonche
from Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, Serving House Books, Raleigh NC; © 2026
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Truth is a tiny bee visiting a flower. If there is something sweet, she takes a sip, then flies off with the pollen of truth sticking to her. Does she notice that burden? Maybe only later when she feeds the grains to a companion bee (or to her larva, cute). Such are the truths of J.R. Solonche’s poems – airy and peripatetic as that bee, sweet sometimes and sometimes sticky. Able to sting, yes, but so beautiful when you lean in close. It would be a crime against poesy to weigh these poems down with any grave pronouncement about them.
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So can you see me smiling as I arrive at the last line of each poem? Can you see me alight at its edge for a moment before I fly to the next? Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years is giving me permission to take a deep breath and be still for a minute. It is revealing the biggest things in the smallest things. It is leading me in close. The facts of that closeness confess their troubles, but they also spin my soul out into the cosmos.
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And there is some joy out there. I’m on my way. As J.R. says, . . . I wanted to / know the universe like the back of my / hand. I did not become an astronomer. / I wasn’t good enough at math. I became / a poet, and I came to know the universe / of the back of my hand.
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J.R. Solonche is a long practiced and prolific poet. I tried to count his poetry books listed in this latest collection, Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years, but I ran out of fingers and toes. He has received many awards, nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and three times for the Pulitzer Prize. He is still writing. Perhaps he is taking his own advice:
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. . . You may not know
what you are doing for a very
long time. Don’t worry. The
words do not know either.
They’ll figure it out together.
Like old friends with nothing
new to say to each other until
they realize they do. . . .
from More Advice to a Young Poet
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Discover more about J. R. Solonche HERE,
and so that you can immediately love it like I do, please purchase Like Grass, Like Atoms, Like Years HERE
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And – read one more poem by J.R. Solonche at Verse and Image here
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present a few poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
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– Bill
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V E R S E and I M A G E 
I'll be sharing more over the next few weeks. ---B