19th hour – All her day songs (Text prompt)

Motions pervade the hustling spaces

seeming huddled together about and below this luxury nook perched on the edge of this parchment of noisy civilization; cocooned from the arm rest of mother nature

I watch the scenes with my ears

i play the tunes of this desperate butterfly

echoing the need of simple and complicated kinds alike

with feelings tethered by a common invisible hand

calling for my attention

screaming for all souls

the seemingly gentler feel of her 2am music

heralds the bashful babbles of all her many day songs

 

 

 

 

Hour 19

I type and I type,

Backspace, I don’t even like that,

A perfectionist.

Prompt 19, What Interests the Rest

Three mayors ago, I lived in a fifth floor apartment
that overlooked a park, and the whistles of the trains running
through
the West Bottoms competed with the arrivals at the downtown airport.

All my boyfriends and my mother, too, wondered how I lived.
All I knew was I was living in the city
and living by the Whitman code.

Sure, Jones and Kresge’s were gone,
and I don’t remember getting ice cream home from midtown without it being melted,
but I had red lights in the dark outside, a mattress on the floor, and
couscous over the kitchen sink.

HOUR 19 / City

 

 

I’m coming back and I don’t know why.

Maybe you think you’re giving me a second chance

telling me I wasn’t in the right frame of mind or

that the holidays were on and to remember

how boring that can be for a city as vibrant as you.

 

But I’ve got to say I didn’t like what you had on show back then. 

It was summer, holidays or not, you’re meant to glow with the

vibrancy that you’re known for, but if it was there at all 

it was hidden behind the endless, on top of each other scrawl 

of the Untalented who think their mindless tagging is a form of art.

 

Don’t get me wrong I’ve revelled in what I’ve seen in the past

the juxtaposition of stone, concrete, steel, rust and glass 

that’s been highlighted with spirited splashes of spray can art 

but last time all I could see was that they, I can’t utter their name again

had taken over the city claiming they’d been robbed of what was duly theirs

a place in the annals of art history.

 

I said, NO, and strongly rebutted their claim shouting

‘Can’t you see you’ve been hijacked by an egotisical!’

I wanted so much for you to rise up and slap them down

to tell them to f**k off until they could put some thought

into what they were spraying but no, you cowered lower than taking

it on the chin and allowed them to think they were powerful.

 

It’s me that’s giving you a second chance.

I hope you don’t disappoint.

Veterans’ City (hour 19)

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

 

Text Prompt-Poem 19 Road Trip

No One Has Gone Before

Schhhhhhwingg~

The blue beam cut down
Jadebright upon new moon night
And all the watchings
Waited

The water thrummed thick
Oilsmoke in climbing shades
The beam snake twisting
On its skin.

The ship moved slowly
Whaledeep in star shadows
Hauling the echoes
Through time

Three shapes suddenly
Cutaway the moonbeam bright
They are lankylong
All fingers

Bulb-blown eyes agape
Gazes grasping in the hold
Seeking watersight
And knowing.

Time flies heavily,
In this belly, centuries
As only empty
Vessels know.

Fleeting dusk-shapes flee,
Flicker-fluid light
Follows. The watchers
Breathe.

——————————————————————————————————-
Credit to the ‘Star Trek’ franchise for the title line and the premise of the poem.

Shoot for the moon

When I was in elementary school they told us
to shoot for the moon and you will land among the stars
what I heard was that I should expect to fail
And so it was confusing to me when my mother got angry
with me for failing to get the grades she set as the benchmark

And so I was torn between these competing ideas
that I was expected to perform and deliver on a high level
but that I was to assume failure and reset expectations
The longer I was caught between this hard place
the more I allowed that confusion to turn the anger inward

What had once felt like being caught by a rock
would eventually become my crucible made my own hands
determined to burn away all impurities
But what was eventually removed from this fire
was not purified metal but the charred remains of a child’s psyche

(Hour 19) 16.30pm-17.30pm. TEXT PROMPT: poem for a city, real or imagined

just do it

i never came down to the city often
it’s only a 90 minute drive
but there never seemed a reason
never felt at home surrounded
by so much concrete & so many people

so even though that one particular
peccadillo has been resolved
slowdriving through is still
ten times stranger than usual
cars have crashed everywhere into everything
the road’s blocked in large stretches
then surprisingly clear for others

Ryan avoids main roads where possible
using suburban streets as much as he can
gently nudging now forever
ownerless vehicles out the way
i’ve said it before & i’ll say it again
thank goodness for bullbars

without gps on my phone
i have no idea how to get anywhere
i’m not sure Ryan does either
though i know he did appropriate
an old-fashioned street directory
from one of the farmhouses we’d looted
on the way down

but the city is a ghost in more ways
than crashed cars & peopleless streets
at some point the power had either died
or deliberately been disconnected
where there should be street lights
& lights in windows of homes & shops
now just pale reflections
of the nearly full moon

most disturbing
are the piles of clothing
jeans & shirts & dresses
blown into doorways
handbags & backpacks
dumped on footpaths

& everywhere dozens & dozens
of empty lifeless shoes

I can only imagine

I don’t dream anymore
But if I did
I would travel back in time
Back to my country
My state
My town
My city

I’d travel back even if no one went with me

Imagine that I would hear the beating of drums before reaching to coast
Only to find out it’s the ancestral heart beat that united to keep us close

My state
My town
My city

Everyone has a mule and acres of land

Everyone in the city travels in and out of reality

In my imagined city
I can always dream