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John Kotula


John Kotula has probably been an artist for lifetimes.  In this incarnation, his work can be seen at Hera Gallery, Wakefield, RI.

Visit his blog, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man, at blogspot.com for his insights.

"I have been drawing continuously, at times obsessively, for more than fifty years. My choice of materials comes and goes and comes back again: pencils, charcoal, conte, ink, crayons, Sharpies, china markers, pastels, chalk...  Through all the changes in materials and subject matter, what has always been true is that I love making marks and seeing them accumulate to reveal an image."   


John's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.  All cover art is by John.

Origami Micro-Chapbook

Selected Poem(s)

What The Dead Have To Say



Look, the dead don’t miss you.
It doesn’t work that way.
No matter what you do.
No matter what you say.
We’ve got perspective.
We’ve got the long view.
I’m beyond being protective.
Even with Asa and Moshe,
There is nothing new.
Every story’s an old one.
It’s all been told before.
You miss me? Yeah, yeah.
My loss makes you weep?
What should I do for you?
Put a broom up my ass?
Give the floor a sweep?

John Kotula © 2011


An Old Guy's Love Poems, Part 2


{mooblock=Swanee River}

Here’s the way it is:
I’m often on the shore
Watching you splash and play
In ocean, river or lake.
Way down upon the Swanee River
On a steamy summer day.
There’s you
In silvery white light
Like a photo taken from underneath a black cloth
Blurry edges with you at the center
That’s where my heart is yearning ever.
Like Popeye, the river swims between your knees.
The pebbles tickle your feet.
Minnows nibble your toes.
Trout delight in their fish eye view of your
Banjo-shaped ass.
The lazy ‘gator thinks,
“Hum… probably tastes like chicken.”
The lazy husband thinks,
“Enough poetry. Enough lying on the bank
While Deb’s far, far away.
I’m going in.”
John Kotula © 2011


An Old Guy's Love Poems


{mooblock=Husband in Winter}

In the middle of the night
I wake up in my warm bed.
I nudge Deb softly.
Yeah, she is still there.
I get up to pee,
Walk past the coats in the hall,
The door to the basement.
The clock on the stove says 2:10.
My old bladder knows the hour,
If not the minute.
There is moonlight coming in the back door.
I can make out the silhouette of the big rosemary plant.
I sit.
No sense in trying to steer
When I’m half asleep.
The thermostat is set at 58.
I’m cold
When I slip
Back under the covers.
But, Deb is warm.
I press against her,
Snuggling, spooning.
One day,
One of us
Will be alone
In this bed.
One of us
Will have to wait
While the heat of one body
Warms it up.
John Kotula © 2011




{mooblock=Gringo Time, Honduran Time}

El tiempo del gringo
Es bien organizado.
It has a beginning, a middle and an end.
Honduran time flows and loops.
Si Dios quiere.
Gringo time falls on the beat.
At best it waltzes.
1-2-3, 1-2-3.
El tiempo Hondureño baile la bachata.
The feet execute a sexy little two-step
While the hips elaborate.
But Honduran time is a
Bromista cruel.
Its jokes are merciless.
The hours glow.
The days rhyme.
The weeks nap in their hammocks.
The months pass in ciclos de sol y lluvia.
But the years kill you.
You are old at forty.
At fifty you look seventy.
Before long,
There is a tent in the street
In front of your house.
Your family weeps in rented folding chairs.
A black bow droops on your door.
Gringo time is a negotiator.
(Even time knows that gringos are powerful.)
In the end it is all the same.
Time has nothing to lose
By relenting a little
Here and there.
Five years if you go to the gym
Three times a week.
Ten years if you take your
Lisinopril daily.
Gringo time is patient.
It’s all the same in the end.
John Kotula © 2010


Cross Country Haiku
I. Road Trip

{mooblock=PA and NY}

Freight trains pass by me
Headed west. I am going east.
I can’t count that fast.
Coming back seems fast.
Faster than going. Tail winds?

New York
New York, the cool state.
Just a corner of it is
Cooler than Texas.
John Kotula © 2010




{mooblock=Biloxi and Austin}

Two towns up a tree
One thing then another.
A well-known story,
A different order for the
Carriage and marriage.
Biloxi loved
Austin. Austin loved Biloxi.
But still, would it last?
John Kotula © 2010



wigs for woman