The Poetry Marathon

Parallel closet is hiding inside

the actual place my clothes reside

a spot where I escape and dream

write about other worlds I scheme.

When life is stressful and upset

my hidden space gives me a rest

sweet music plays from within

and my mind changes channels

of scenes and screens on walls.

Should I need any sleep

many pillows in a heap

all over the floor

also muffle my snore.

When I’m sick, it’s the best

tissues, humidifier, warm compress

and songs from my mama

while in fuzzy pajamas.

Closet opposite reality

also a better world would be

peace and love, and me

here now and never face

our old Earth’s ugly space.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023

Music prompts me to be chill

but to write at will

these last words I’d rather spill.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

Flat

peeked down

discovered

layers below

each one under, oh

Earth, here I peer in fear

flat discs of planets, far, near

colors, and fiery warmth now sears

closer planets, Venus and Mars, red

Jupiter, Neptune, blue instead

now, suddenly in my view

cylindrical portals

appear thus anew

happy, I slide

new worlds guide

me to

space.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

A beet hidden in my jacket

home in the bayou, I elbow

the cat sitting below

Cinnamon is her name

she’s scared of the lightbulb, same

as the bucket of veggies

now elk blocks 

my carport

the beet, I use

to get to work.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

Summer of broken rules

smashing glass and jumping in pools

no matter which backyard you choose

eating from fridges, cooking on stoves

blindfold pinning a map to see where to go.

Singing in concert halls too good for you

never once worried you’re out of tune

dancing atop the highest height

wobbling, near the edge, at night

never having the slightest fright.

Walking on the railroad tracks

daring life till near-train attacks

still, press on and dodge some cars

jumping roof to roof, under stars.

Only way to stop this mess

mother’s holler from home address

then freeze, and hang your head so low

there’s only one right way to go.

Redaction, they said

to this I dare, instead

like my poem so much

no words shall I touch.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

(No words were harmed in the non-redaction of this poetry.)

The best time in my life

Everyday, eight hours wide

All my friends are tiny tots

Children who thrive in this spot

Happy, babbling, funny babies

I sometimes think, a little crazy

New eyes and ears, laughter, tears

Good to cuddle, tickle ears

Boys and girls, eyes wide

All to learn a song, or hide

Behind a shelf, or myself

I pretend not to see

Everything quiets, gee

Shh, this baby’s fast asleep.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

A ragged outhouse, deep in brambles

If I enter, clothes be shambles

its insides like fire, golden

with tons of bright buttons

one finger to push

feel a great whoosh

and a pop

time stops

door

opens

outside, new

a Venice view

not believing eyes

turn to face the disguise

now a gondola here floats

so I jump into the old boat

a button I seek inside the hull

voila, in French reads “on y va”

”let’s go” with just one touch

in outhouse again

open door then

Eiffel, but

here, I

stay.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-23

What is love?

Just a little kiss

even a small tryst

a shy, crooked smile.

Sometimes, oft

what love is

cannot be bought

just given.

A special treat

clean house, and neat

dinner and sweets

amour under sheets.

Even a spring walk

holding hands in a park

a close embrace, face on face

love is an odyssey, not a race.

Love is never letting go

even in old age, we know

keeping love alive is best

until love takes eternal rest.

– Sandra Johnson, 9-2-2023

As we swing

time does its thing

the world goes by

and music rings.

A silly little ding

as we swing

a bell goes ‘round

and cracks the ground.

Hole opens wide

there’s souls inside

as we swing

a demon sings.

We cringe and bray

our ride’s strings fray

this rope stings

as we swing.

The end is near

both hanging here

no escape we fear

last fingers hang

as we swing.

– Sandra Johnson, 9/2/2023

In an ice-covered cube they move, two

vows bind their love, like frost entwined

lovely she, dashing he, find

this frozen space, like minds

hold and have, rich, poor

death may tap door

but their ice

lives on

strong.

– Sandra Johnson, 9/2/23