John Perrault is a lawyer, teacher, poet, and balladeer. Over the years he has performed his songs and poems in numerous venues throughout New England, including The New England Folk Festival, The Maine Festival, The Prescott Park Arts Festival, Chautauqua, Writers' Day for the New Hampshire Writers' Project, The Maine Writers Conference, The Seacoast Writers Conference, Passim, The Stone Church, and countless libraries, schools and coffee houses. He is the author of Jefferson's Dream, The Ballad of Louis Wagner and other New England Stories in Verse, and Here Comes the Old Man Now. He was poet laureate of Portsmouth, NH, 2003 - 2005. more »
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John Perreault Poems
A road can't be as sad as a shoe is sad when a shoe can't read. I can't read either.
Why is everything I do in my life like a boomerang? I throw the paper airplane out the window and the wind sends it back. I spit against the wind.
After science, we have perfumes of various sorts.
The Venus Fly Trap (1) A Beautiful Plant!
The Ballad of the Squalus
I ran into an old time sailor, up on Market Street; We had a cup of coffee, his last name was McLees; He fought in the Pacific, on Portsmouth submarines; I asked about the Squalus, this is what he told me.
The Metaphysical Paintings
1. The Enigma of Arrival We are nude beneath our costumes as in the false myths we have been forced
The Ballad of Louis Wagner
The fog peers in the windows, passes 'neath the lamps Settles in the doorways and huddles from the damp Slips inside the houses, rooms, the sleeper's bed and dreams It rolls him over, turns him out into the shrouded street.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A road can't be as sad as a shoe is sad
when a shoe can't read.
I can't read either.
And I have given away all my clothes
and gone away so far
that no one will even remember that I've gone
nor how far I went when I was here.
For a road can't be as crazy as a ranch is mad
when a ranch can't sing.
I cough. I spit. I jump up and down
and I run around like a headless rooster.
Me too. I am not lonesome. I am gregarious.
I make friends with the curbstone even.
But a shoe can't be as pretty as a wheel when it's turning
or a tunnel ...