Paul Ilechko
Paul Ilechko is a British American poet and occasional songwriter. He was born in Barnsley in the north of England, and attended Royal Holloway College, University of London, for his Bachelor’s degree. He now lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, deLuge, Stirring, and The Inflectionist Review. He has also published several chapbooks, including “Pain Sections” from Alien Buddha Press, and “This Liquid World,” an e-chap from Voice Luxe.
A New Jersey Life
It’s much colder today
than it has been in recent times
although I am still not sure
that I am able to adequately define time
not the way in which it flows
nor what substance it might consist of
even though I fall to my knees
in something resembling prayer
as I watch cities blazing
all across the open countryside
across the darkly tortured landscape
of New Jersey
where the wind blows always from the west
and smoke columns lean hard
blackening the few remaining flakes
still tangled in the atmosphere
rarely landing and never sticking
this is what we have chosen as our world
and in it we are comfortable
or at least accepting
the storms passed us by
while we were anchored in place
riding out the winter
neither aging nor dying for now.
One Percent
It was the part of the county where the rich folks lived
high hedgerows hiding everything except
a glimpse of an endless driveway somewhere back
there a mansion you can never see without an invite
they were sitting in the car engine running
waiting for the sun to appear from behind the cumulus density
one of them thinking about his girlfriend who had refused to
make the trip preferring to spend her days sleeping till noon
they sat together unspeaking remembering the iron frost
that broke the pipes the dish of oranges that froze
from the inside out they felt like foreigners here
unable to translate the messages spelled out with secret flags
each color field portraying a syllable or more his girlfriend
had by now moved to a chair beneath the motel’s umbrella
adjacent to the crystal clarity of the cerulean pool
not allowing ultraviolet to destroy her perfect complexion.