The Poetry Marathon

Getting lost in a book

is safer by far

than taking a ride

in a sly Uber car

where the driver is banned

from all of the bars.

It’s better, and grand

to be holding the hand

of a kind caring hero

than to mistakenly tryst

with a real absolute zero.

Instead of a party

where the snobby and haughty

shun and ignore you

fairy tales and happy endings

with shimmering weddings

fairy godmother’s allowing

after midnight rule-bending.

In lieu of work and woe

changing nappies, stubbing toes

making magic I’d be

‘neath a big willow tree

and Harry would see

and then befriend me.

Instead of vehicular gridlock

Angry people, horns blaring havoc

by the bay I’d be frocked

with best bud, our arms locked

a feast beside us on the dock.

When a bad day I’d have

people I can’t save

and the world seems to cave

but a good book of prose

brings me a rose

and a crown on a throne

feels like a second home

and I’ll ne’er be alone.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

Inspiration: “Books were safer than other people anyway.” – Neil Gaiman

Writing poetry alone

is a place I call home

with springboard to bounce words on.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

(Reverse Haiku – yeah, I did it!)

Oh, cheese!

yes, please.

ricotta’s creamy, blue is crumbly

as I write, see

cottage goes in my tummy.

Crackers are nice

with Colby jack, sliced

and grilled sandwich, can’t wait

for Swiss to ooze on hot plate.

Cheddar whiz is fine

atop cheesesteak, sublime

its bubbly goo

melts in my mouth, oooh.

Parmesan and romano

rock breaded chicken Italiano

or shredded atop-a

my bubbly lasagna.

Cheez its are a pleasure

in all kinds of weather

and even goldfish

deliver a kiss

of cheesy pleasure.

Even cheese from a can

in my mouth, it is grand

making decorations a bunch

on my sammie for lunch.

Oh, cheese, I love these

you make life a breeze

and make smiles alight

each time I take that first bite.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

Alarms, bells, shouting, mower loudly goes

this is the stuff that wakes me up

grows, bellows, down ears to toes

thunder, lightning – fright’ning

blood shot eyes – bright’ning

screech owl screaming

my dreaming

waking

now.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

They laugh and they sigh

but babies do cry;

a form of speaking, aye!

An automatic and frantic spike

of infants and toddlers alike.

First motionless and cradled,

now flip and they wobble able

and once helpless bait

now prey like sharks in wait.

But it’s tit for tat

and curiosity that

keeps them crawling for binkies

possible crumbs, wanted toys;

they rattle and shake these.

As for diapers, they do

have a lot of funky poo

and clean up we rue

when sometimes they spew –

pee-yew!

And alas, soon they stand;

they wobble and land

on their bottoms, and then,

try again, and again.

Next, they will babble

shake and bounce; they will dabble,

wave a little, bark

and clap like baby sharks.

Finally, first steps they make!

I’m sad, while they take

longer walks on the floor,

babes no more,

blooming toddlers out the door.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

After dark, I stroll

Stretching boneless mountains roll

under deflated clouds and pallid stars

I teetered, whirled far

when a speeding car

whizzed by me, light trailing

the last blues of dusk fading

spirits whisper beside me

tickle blindingly

just a branch of spruce

then I trip on its roots

and fall, breaking the silence

onto a lumpy coffin, I heard violence

muffled screaming

a headstone partly blocking

eyes twisted, fascinating

astounded, half-rotted

the sight left me winded

deceived, instead

I rolled off the edging

of my ruffled bedding

the night become morning

but muddy shoes drying

by my blistered dirty feet.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

There lit a scarecrow on the roof

where underneath I lived my youth

what did I know of naked truth

is it my inner child inside I’m fighting?

Now, I’m not comfy in my skin

nor even like the state I’m in

just wondering where to begin

instead of lies, pretense and innuendo?

Just wish the worry go away

stop hiding in this old charade

food always wins this game I play

instead of praying, eating right and living.

Each and every night I fail to prove

food I will refuse you

bound up in lies, my food voodoo

my mind will manipulate.

Cuisine’s my sensuality

it keeps me from my liberty

and almost feels like piracy

when I sneak-slither to the kitchen sometimes.

But suddenly, I feel surprised

that now my health is compromised

my God, today I’ve realized

that food is what’s manipulating me …

manipulating …

Now every night I aim to prove

food I will refuse you

breaking the chains of food voodoo

so it can’t manipulate.

Food offers me no loving way

‘twill never love me today

won’t let it try to have its way

to refuse you,

prayer and hope will help me always.

Now every night I aim to prove

food I will refuse you

breaking the chains of food voodoo

so it can’t manipulate.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

The best part … editing

I refuse a prompting

then I fight with the thing

and then I’m still, stopping

I listen to the ring

in my ears, a bird sings

just halting, and hearing

all the rhyming it brings

and then a brief tussling

my critic is fussing

the muse is now losing

yet I see a cool posting

of others’ boasting

turning dead words into hatchlings

a wall, I’m now climbing

my ears are a buzzing

be still, listen, and learning

poem’s end is now nearing

and what you were fearing

is now happily ending.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

“…just be still, and listen” Credit: Shlokla Shankar.

I touch feline fur,

and feel the deep purr

it makes my heart whir

then beats in rhythm with her.

Holding soft anole

my heat warming its cold

how is it though

they feel no temp at all?

Still, they always crawl

and find the warmest hole

created by the fingers

and curls up in a ball.

A puppy’s wet nose

tickles my bare toes

and its accidental scratch

brings pain and love both.

A baby’s peach fuzz

creates such a buzz

the soft down of hair

like a live teddy bear

and sweetest warm hugs

the epitome of love.

The touch of his lips

and a graze at the hips

makes my skin not just happy

but tingling and laughing

with love and rejoicing.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/27/21

An armored man

stands at the end

of a pulsating circle

his mouth a wide oval.

Will he step inside

or try to hide?

Instead he’s sucked in

amid a high-pitched wind

which twists the skin.

Inside, secrets writhe

in and out of his mind

black box, area 51

revealed truth, one by one.

A species, familiar but fair

clip a lock of his hair

with only this DNA

they will find a way.

A clone so concise

but its skin feels like ice

infiltrate it will

take over until

Earth’s surface is chill.

Peace is the plan

more men are replaced

anger, hate – erased

turn into a race

that join hand in hand.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21