The Poetry Marathon

From my niblings came littles

nephew and nieces, I mean

the babies are my niblets

they’re unseen,

but they sing.

Niblets make me happy

they look like my niblings

and sometimes

they hug me

just like my siblings.

Even though I never had

a child of my own

I imagine niblings’ niblets

have a bed in my home.

Don’t get me wrong

I’m not craving a child

I’m too old, the world is cold

niblets make you worry naught

all the day long.

But if I ever need

a little one for which to care

the soft patter of niblets’ feet,

a Cheshire smile

will always be right there.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

Reason to forgo food we need

we need not question why, indeed

our bodies we need not to die

good nutrition we need, says I.

We need to keep our bodies sharp

distraction keeps the fridge light dark

a mantra we need to set the spark

and good friends to keep from worry’s murk.

We need to make amends always

a God we need to help and pray

and when we’re in a very bad way

we need to breathe

and review the day.

Good sleep we need to keep alive

and meditation to revive

we need just to count to five

before making decisions so contrived.

We need to draft a plan forthright

to make sound choices day and night

and stop the eating at days end

or if we can’t, we text a friend.

We need to read and write about

things that helped the others out

stories of mind and body’s wins

freedom from food outside and in.

We need a mentor by our side

who will guide and we need confide

and contact quick when thoughts collide

to discover doors food tries to hide.

We need to meet and serve our peers

to help our friends, confront our fears

and when we need a hug, or ear

come back again, they’re always near.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/2021

(from 2019 – prompt 15, hour 15)

Stretchy sunken skeletal feet, grey

scratch the carpet where now she lay

dripping, drooping fingers down

touched the gun without sound

it grasped the bullet

from deep inside

now she wakes

not dead

live.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

With gumboots spread wide, I crane my bare head

to the periwinkle sky, tie dyed and bled

a skyscraper needle’s head, I then spy

pierces a cloud up high, sighs

bringing rain’s beating pings

like beetle’s wings

on thin

skin.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

Those cubicles down on highway six

how do those people fit?

The doors are oblong

surrounded by

four-foot cubes of concrete split.

Picasso, I thought

had inspired this lot.

No door on one –

how shall they come home?

Inside, imagine there,

cubes every which where.

Even what’s circular,

is the form of a square –

even the glasses

and crooked rocking chairs.

Just a wee bit of light

from small rhombi, not bright.

The chandeliers – they’re diamonds

no ovals in sight.

Even the outlets

look like robots not faces,

and shoes with no laces

with Velcro and heels

all 90-degree angles.

Living here,

you’d surely fear

children born with

Pikachu ears.

All words in CAPS locked

in each book and magazine

stacked, blocked

and every word is shouted

even the whispering.

Never could live there

or I’d find myself mumbling, scared

inside cell with square pads

in a straight jacket plaid.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

(from photo prompt –  hour 7)

Back to the drawing board

failed again

there’s always something

that does me in.

Do over they say

but sugar, it may

be a grave one day

no more trying today.

But go back I must

begin anew, trust

that trying again

won’t be the end –

a beginning?

Erase the old ways

forget the bad days

remember the time

of delicious and healthy

and getting sleep early.

I must throw bad habits

into trash baskets

be kinder to all

let jealously fall

into pieces.

Back to the drawing board, says I

a new plan I shall try

and just keep re-writing

‘til success is the thing

and I find my wings.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

Little Danny sees

a hotel and trees

his father, not nice

the typewriter like ice

to the touch.

Twins lure him to play

in a bloodied hallway

where they want him to stay

forever.

A pus-bloated woman

beckons, an omen

of the wringing to come

his neck turning plum

and yellow-ochre.

Tony, his friend

foresees the bitter end

now the boy can defend

against mom’s murder.

But there is a man

who sees spirits like Dan

and helps through like-vision

to escape the prison

of skeletal demons and sin.

“Here’s Johnny,” Jack said

his eyes bloodshot red

door splintered revealing

Mom’s terrified visage.

The spirits haunt Jack

son wanders, backtracks

in the maze, no way back

the beast is frozen.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/2021

(Credit: “Here’s Johnny” and characters from Stephen King’s The Shining)

Is being mute

muzzled, masked, absolute

no freedom with words

jailed in Facebook in herds.

Is that normal?

Getting fired

setting buildings ablaze

walking around in a daze

locked in houses, crazed.

A new normal?

Our history ruined

statues offended, abused

how long had they stood

without so much as a nod

or a mention.

Normal?

They paint the news

with propaganda and untruth

riots bending reality

they’re disguised in totality

and sell their brutality

to the world – antifa

No, we don’t trust ya.

Why normal?

Without a mask

a vaccine, Will it last?

what happens next?

Will they try to ban sex?

No, that’s not normal.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

These old shoes

they’ve felt the road

a cobbled path

the cold winds blowed

afore and aft

on a bridge I once trode.

A scuff here and there

from a trip down some stairs

and a hole in the sole

tells how long I did go.

The laces, so worn

a cobbler would scorn

and berate me

still, up hill and down

sometimes with a frown

you could see on my shoes’

tired faces.

A smile, I’d see

when I set those soles free

a dip in the pool

beats the races.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21

Inside a dank can

I found in the ground

just digging a garden, you see.

I spied with delight

the shimmery white

a mother of pearl set

there were three!

Inside the first thing

a dainty Irish ring

inside, it read

my love, let us wed

and let our hearts sing!

Number two, it was blue

an old hiking shoe

inside it, a note

and I read what she wrote

“it’s time to be through, my shrew.”

The last one, I cried

it left nothing to hide

a rose, all gilded with pewter

alongside was a note

and on it, by rote

Alas, I was too late to win her.

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21