24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
The Wave
Since Mommy and Mamaw quit talking, Mamaw stands
on her porch and drinks her coffee when night twinkles
into day, after stars have fallen into the clouds.
Daddy and I drive by on our way to work, our red
car flashing past, speeding because we’re late. She raises
her shaking arm to the sky, doesn’t wave, just lifts,
and, behind the window’s glare, I do mine, both
reaching for the air above us that we can’t grasp.
CD you see
it screams, why me?
soon to be
defunct, like analog TV
maybe soon, repurposed
as furniture, refurbished
something shiny, maybe jewelry
is what may become of me
you see, my older cousin vinyl
is resurrecting, no longer idle
because of new technology
diamond stylus, sound quality
record shops are popping up
the Sweet Spot is our favorite hub
Steve and Stuart, our sound gurus
guide us to a funky groove
or find our jam, both old and new
so CD, don’t be yet blue
of your kind, they have a few
but beware the big bad turntable
young customers, not just elders
are piling in to buy these jewels
till demise, CD may meet soon
unless you find a happy home
in some disc player, no longer alone.
– Sandra Johnson
A MONUMENT TO EPHEMERAL FACTS
My father gave me a beautiful poster print
from his tool and dye shop at Xerox
when I was a senior in high school
picturing colorful hardcover books stacked in a pyramid
and beneath this obelisk an epitaph:
“A Monument To Ephemeral Facts”
It was beautiful, and I was offended
The same way I was offended by the Nook reader
not one atom in my being desiring to trade
the warm familiarity of turning pages
for the cold clinical brightness of a tablet screen
I was young then, but oh how certain I was
that I was a crone hag bent on traditional wildness
unwilling to trade any convenience for the magick of my tools
the way, I’m sure, 20th century writers clung to their manual typewriters
too aware that their woods was lacking in electrical outlets
But I loved my library in those days
no matter how many flights of stairs I had to haul it up
no matter how many broken bookshelves needed replacing
that was nearly a decade ago, maybe more
my hands lost count of the calendar pages
and today I’m a top floor treehouse girl
My library fell away in chunks
with only 5 small boxes of books to brave these stairs
and damn, man, it was serious, 2020 has me in my 30s
with all my druthers I’d go back to 19 and tell me mean
“Don’t be a Luddite, Bunny, an online library is fine
books are obsolete baby, give your back a break.”
the passion of human spirit
desirous in every engagement
manifesting in every action
with its given reaction
covering anew in the help of anther
renewing the life coverage
clarity of known encounters
innermost corners of human philosophy
sharing in the life stories
togetherness enriching anew
converging in the spin of manifested wants
assigning the needs for new spirit queries
Poem #10
My classroom clock,
Stuck to the wall,
Staring at me –
Spinning endlessly,
Forever.
Tick, Tock,
Tick, Tock.
Time is eternal
And will live
Well past my days
On this earth.
My classroom clock
just wishes
It could move
To swat the fly
Crawling over its face.
My classroom clock
knows I’m the
only one
In this classroom
That has any use for him.
Our students have
no idea
How to tell time
Unless
it is by a digital number.
CD paced walking
is now digital streaming
hung just to scare crows
Don’t let her speak to you that way
In what I thought was profound and
sound advice to one so much younger than myself
But I confused her all the more
I don’t know what it means
She said to me, hesitating, hoping not to offend
It means what it says, I said
It just doesn’t compute, there are no pictures
in my mind to explain this phrase, she offered
I stood there not getting that the image
I could see, existed only in memory, for me
Press off, a red X
Ahh!
I am not truly aware as he covers me with sand.
I am just a body. I remotely see. I don’t feel.
Grains slip, a fine miat flowing softly.
Some on what was my eye. Some on the material wrapped tight.
But he does only a handful, another. He stops.
His hands over his face. He cries.
Strange little man. None cried for me in life. Now his tears flow. Beyond.
They would coat the desert but the desert is too vast.
No sound here. No coyote. No wind. No human.
Just a body and a man lost in the waves of soft erasure.
The Victrola
My Father’s job took him from farm to farm
Sometimes he came across treasures tucked away in barns
One day he brought home a cabinet Victrola
Four feet across and standing on spindly legs,
it boasted two compartments for records
and a front panel that could be slid away to reveal the horn
But the magic happened when you lifted the lid
Here, in a velvet lined compartment, lived the turntable
A lever underneath it controlled the speed
Next to that, a small built-in dish held spare needles –
some made of steel and some made of wood
We learned to lift the arm and replace the needles often,
especially the wooden ones, which didn’t last long
Before a record could be played
someone volunteered to turn the crank
At first, we worried it could be over-wound
But a resistance built up as you cranked,
so the last go rounds were slow and hard
Somewhere we found a stash of records
big heavy 12-inch disks
that withstood a steel needle’s abuse
We listened to Count Basie, Tommy Dorsey,
Fess Williams and his Royal Flush Orchestra
and many, many more a lot less famous
When the power went out
and TV, radio, and high-fi were of no use to us
we’d open up the Victrola
An ordinary cabinet revealing its secret self
like an enormous pop-up book unfolding
and play the records at half speed for a laugh
searching out the silliest lyrics
each discovering a favorite or two
Our Victrola – a little trip into the past
I light a cigarette
And slowly blow out the smoke
While sitting on the rooftop
Of this Italian villa
I’ve never been to Italy
But being stuck inside for three months
Has caused me to start daydreaming
And making lists of where I want to be
But back to my Italian villa
It’s evening
The weather is cool
The moon is full
And the city below is asleep
My stomach is filled with good food
My head is full of good wine
And I have snuck out onto the roof
To have this clandestine cigarette
I haven’t had one since before the quarantine
And I didn’t dare have one for a good while after
Afraid of putting my lungs at a disadvantage
I have avoided my favorite self-destruction
Oh please, by all the stars in the heavens
Let me have this moment
In three years or more
Let me be smoking a cigarette on a rooftop in Italy