The Poetry Marathon

There should be a Veterans’ City

where former military ain’t treated shitty

none would beg down in the streets

or lose benefits, drunk and beat

in this town, treated so sweet.

Parades, they’d hold them once a week

Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines

even reserves, police, firefighters, EMTs.

all be lauded, applauded, and preened.

Gents with sweat-filled, epileptic nightmares

missing legs, arms, full of fear

would always have the best of care

Slowly brings light from black despair.

– Sandra Johnson, June 26, 2022

Joy, even in fear and pain

infected toe, with pus and stain

out a week to heal and drain

a glimpse of retirement

doing whatever the week will bring.

Happiness, despite one oozing digit

is easy when sleep-in days are in it

sitting, reading, playing games

keeping company with my canines

and lizards, jumping in the vines.

Even podiatrist, he could mend

my tolerance for sharps, he did extend

a kindly clerk, became my friend

her prayers brought panic to an end.

Joy, a moment it did seem

but while it lasted, a real-life dream

then poetry comes, and extends the stream

continuing my jubilee thru workweek’s regime.

– Sandra Johnson, June 26, 2022

My dragon is a loving pet

perched atop my castle, yet

he needs not a largish cave

just three-feet-tall

with wings a-wave.

His flames, they warm my hearth of old

and next to me, he heats bed cold

when hunger comes, he does a trick

catch, then kill, and braise it quick.

If criminals should come to call

they’d laugh at him, but then soon fall

his razor claws around their ears

and flee they would, with smoking rears.

My friends all love this purple guy

they travel far to meet and fly

and anytime we want to see

our most favorite country

France, we swiftly soar to thee.

Reality, I’d trade ye any day

to own this wee dragon, and stay

happily flapping in the sky

content to live and play with Fire.

– Sandra Johnson, June 26, 2022

Blocked

pen shocked

mind fuzzy

in a tizzy

blank page now dizzy

missing words, it’s crazy

adverbs, nouns, adjectives all

no objective, no topic, fail.

What happens when ideas run dry?

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

I lust for sugar

many sweets I crave

just as strong as a drug

it lures me, kills me

makes me bug

like lunatic I rave.

There is no power greater

than any sugarnado

the addiction spins, and later

makes me sick, a hater.

Yet always return to the hive

like a bee, I always thrive

secretly, I feed, and grow each comb

my stomach, resembling mama’s womb.

This sweet lust, it must be stopped

or else soon eat at me

turn my body into mush

to die, horribly and untimely.

So I must end this insane dance

all sugar, cut off this lulling trance

instead choose natural, healthy fruit

to wean, finally give lust the boot.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

A young lady, down on 347

somewhere between Millville and heaven

past the graveyard in the woods

a bend in the road, she sometimes stood

dressed in prom garb, waiting still

for her boyfriend, whom car crash killed

he went above, she stayed below

hoping for the car that slowed

to escort her to a party near

a tuxedoed gentleman appeared

walked toward her billowing shroud

gasped, not understanding this young girl

realizing her unearthly pall

this time, she did not disappear

or legend says, caused rumors here

in hopes to kiss her ghostly beau

but none appeared, or joined her so

and now, she reached his trembling space

he did not pull away, the lace

then saw the bright glow on her face

he did not hear the blaring horn

that joined this couple to the prom.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

This dog Lumpy, is so damned grumpy

he cannot walk or see, or pee

eyes both milky and bumpy

shirt, it’s holed but starry

yet so warm is he

calm and happy

to simply

just be

still.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

Photo credit – Catherine Dickson

Gathering again mouths muted,

no sound but music here

to balance the cruel violence

the ugly world does bear.

Smiles and hugs replace words,

gestures of love and peace

replace the earthly hate and war

in outsiders’ collective face.

No masks they wear,

covers cause unease and loathing

this is opposite the point

of gathering without binding

breathing truths, not undermining.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

If dogs cannot smell

butts they cannot nose well

to determine friend or foe

may as well be in hell.

Our airports, sans sniffers

would send drugs out unhindered

these same dogs, without owners

would be abandoned in hours.

No smell means no joy

taste is marred, meat is spoiled

treats seem like cardboard

training makes canines sore.

Oh, man’s best friend

even that would now end

smell brings these two together

without, this love dies,

bones a-scatter.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

This tree of bones

sits so alone

one branch a femur

all chewed up, from a beaver

kneecap of giraffe

limbs so long you can’t laugh

the spindly twigs

from sparrow’s wings

and the trunk, does it dare

from an elephant there

the knot, it’s a hoof jutted

from a cow once milked, ‘uddered’

last, its leaves you see

molted reptile skin be.

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

Photo credit Deborah Dalton