The Poetry Marathon

Recliner On the Corner

Maybe it’s been there a week

Sometimes life surprises you like that

 

But there it was

A couple blocks from my house

 

A recliner the color of tired goldrush

Sitting on the northeast corner of the the intersection

 

A hole head-height

Worn threadbare from the weight of thoughts

 

I imagine in its proud earlier days

More citrus, more orange, with a hint of lemon

 

Now it sits there un-sat

A silent, stationary traffic guardian.

 

I wonder if there is a such thing as

Chair purgatory

Or if like Sisyphus the chair

Is mocked by the gods

And doomed to sit unfilled…unfullfilled…

Its arms outstretched, awaiting the weight

Of human touch

No more

 

Perhaps, with its last days of chair dignity left,

It remembers grandparents and unexpected company

It holds watch

For hospitality

 

10th Hour: His penance

Out of the womb of the earth,
He trickled out, once a glorious serpent; a terror to his enemies
His skin, now sallow, limp, barely covering his existence
Dragged himself painfully, a dull thudding on the ground

A curious monkey up a tree, chanced upon him,
“O serpent, how did they beat you?
Did your poison run out?”
Or did your courage?”
And the monkey thumped his tail on the ground
Grinning from ear to ear, mocking him whose end was near
The serpent, his yellow eyes filled with ire
His large angry head went side to side,
He sat up straight, his full length
Almost reaching the quaking primate up the tree
His fangs looked like the god of death; the monkey said his last prayers
For that one moment, the serpent glistened; his once glorious self
The next, he crashed to the ground, with a tired smile,
” Go, insensible monkey, I have chosen to nevermore kill
I have embraced ahimsa
This is my penance for killing so many
innocents
I will die soon, so I can really live…!”
The monkey bowed down in shame,” Guruji,
I will follow in your footsteps…”

No. 14: Summer Monsoon

I've always enjoyed rainstorms
The downpours, the thunder, the lightning
The drumming of drops on the roof
The flash of lightning ...
Waiting for the thunder to crack overhead

Summer rains in the Arizona desert
Was like standing under the water of a tepid shower
Washing away the dust of the day
Our faces tipped skyward, mouths opened
Laughing as we choked on the drizzle

We splashed through the puddles in barefeet
Watching out for the the worms struggling
For a breath of air as the rain drove them
From the depths of their domain
We squealed to avoid stepping on them

Eventually, the sun drove away the rain
Drying up the puddles
The clothes we wore on our bodies
The worms caught out on the pavement
Soon sizzled away

Our interest in the outdoors
Waned as the heat arose
And we headed indoors for
Lunch and an afternoon nap
To wait for the next cycle of storms

Hour 10 : The Only Place

The Only Place

It’s funny how I dream of everybody but you.

Like my love for you is scared of the dark.

Maybe the night is the only place

where your eyes can’t follow me.

Read my lips (Hour 8)

Get a grip, don’t resist, read my lips*

lose yourself, swing those hips

 

We’ll go gently, brightly away

give us just a little privacy

friends think it’s crazy.

 

Getting closer, a little at stake

off the shoreline, on the lake

 

I read your lips, see

lucky you wanna be

 

What if you have nothing to say?

get a grip, no resisting, not reading lips

 

Coming closer, little more at stake

taking a trip, a mini break

risky fingers, smooth touch, ache

 

Read my lips, love’s chance we take

but love’s now deaf, we cannot make.

 

– Sandra Johnson, June 25, 2022

 

*Credit: Chorus of Duran Duran’s Read my Lips

 

 

 

All in My Head

All in my head
thinking I might find my love

All in my head
praying to the stars above

Wondering
what it really feels like
to be held so tight
within his arms

Yet, I know that
he’s searching for me, too

All in my head
trying not to feel so blue

All in my head
that he might take away
this loneliness
I feel each day

And, I know that
he must be searching for me, too

All in my head
Could it possibly be you?

Trage

Trage
It’s my term
For a text dump
A text fury.

That asshole said that thing
Again
You know, THE thing
In real life you would walk off
People staring
They might film
Who knows!

But damn.
They send it in writing?
Game on.
I am usually a sip my coffee
Walk round the block
Take 5 before sending that email
Mammal.

That text extends a finger
Gently tickling my ear.
Come on girl.
You can just rage it all out and shut the phone off!
You don’t even have the ‘come back’ ‘reply’
Blah blah
Bullshit repeat.

Trage is a release
Consequences ignored for til a more convenient time.
When they will say that same thing again.
THE thing
Game on.

Hour 10

The hairs on my arms are standing,

Chill bumps arise,

Chills from my toes to my spine,

I shiver… I shiver,

From my teeth an uncontrollable chatter,

You can hear, I can feel the vibrations,

The brisk wind whistles softly by,

Where has that wind come from,

For I lay in my abode,

Firmly perched over three cushions,

One legged crossing the other,

With a notebook and pen,

Brace for another addition,

I need my blanket.

 

 

Hour 8: Gigan

Life is a labyrinth of suffering.

Pain that reverberates through a smashed face.

 

Immediate signals that bombard the brain,

There is no escape from this suffering.

It is required to endure living.

 

The obstruction to my trajectory,

change came for the plans I intended to see.

 

In crowds of people I ache for lovers

I’ll never share, to never see so many people

 

honest and unguarded, and to love them for it.

Life is a labyrinth of suffering.

 

The obstruction to my trajectory

My desire to change what has been

The origin of all my pain.

 

It is only this suffering  I can remedy.

By simply greeting life as it is when it arrives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

12 Bird Poems

XI.

A tiny hummingbird

perches on the thinnest limb

of a cedar outside my window.

 

It’s approaching dusk – a heavy

feeding time and everyone shows up

and I’m listening for Ravens.

 

Mornings open here with mist rising

from the meadow, the babble of birdsong.

And Ravens launching their busy day.

 

Coffee on the porch and Raven chatter

from the pine stand across the meadow –

up on the rise across the road.

 

And we close the day in much the same way,

but with wine!