Archive for June 5, 2012



Down the coast and out to sea,

a voice, a whisper beckons me.

It is the sound of her calling my name.

Would she still love me, a man with my shame?

Will she remember the hands that caressed

her face and body, and how I confessed

of the love and tenderness for her in my heart,

wrenched and torn, when we had to part?

Now, I’m returning and will look for her,

alive with the burning desire to stir

the love we shared when I left for the sea.

I pray she’s still there, waiting for me.

There was a fight. Oh, God! What a mess.

It was late that night. I drank to excess.

I did not know, but did not care

that her husband knew of our love affair.

Coming alive with a fist to my jaw

intent on surviving once the knife I saw

I sprang with shifting feet in dread,

landing a blow with my right to his head,

then felt the piercing pain and might

of flashing silver turned crimson bright.

With his knife to my flesh, and muscle it tore.

Bleeding and enraged I came down and bore

the knife I captured, to his chest then came

in self-defense went at him the same.

His breathing stilled, and he lay dead.

Was justice served this way instead?

I went away broken, feeling despair

leaving her behind, her grief to bear.

Like an anchor weighed down

with heavy remorse

wherever I sailed, wherever my course

I could not forget how she once loved me.

Now I’m returning from a dark, cold sea.


Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson



Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson © 2009


A blushing face under a bonnet one day

Stopped my heart and roving eyes that May.

With swishing skirt she coyly walked,

  Her voice, a soft whisper when she talked.

Could she have known? Did she see?

Could she tell from my look how she affected me?

She was like sweet nectar on a flower to be

  Planted beneath the old withered tree.

 Some will say that love is blind,

  That eyes cannot see what the heart doth find;

 A moment of pleasure, a moment in time,

 No word spoken and no thought of mind.

 Like a love that is destined from the start

 Like a bud in bloom from out of the heart.

 Pledging her love that day to me

We embraced beneath the old withered tree.

But there came another. Bold was he

intent on stealing my sweetheart from me.

“Too experienced in love,” they say,

he charmed his way to her heart that May.

His reputation followed. Stories told

 of “a man who broke hearts, was callous and cold.”

I hoped she’d come back and want only me

to be married beneath the old withered tree.

Her hair in the wind, her face from the sun

  trying to protect me, she started to run.

Wanting to shield me, she came to cover

my body from the bullet, the one from her lover.

She fell silent to the ground alongside me

 her skirt turning red against my knee.

I carried her back to the spot where we

  once sat beneath the old withered tree.

Yes, I was in love, and I was the fool

to challenge her lover to a duel:

the man who stole from me is now gone.

My remorse and regret adds more upon

 my guilt and the sound of the wind like a song

singing a sad refrain of what I did wrong:

it plays a eulogy for my sweetheart where she

   lies buried beneath the old withered tree.



Writing – Always a ‘Work in Progress’

I believe that variety and diversity is optional, but often needed, even expected for a writer to communicate effectively to the reader, depending on the message or style, genre, age and gender. Illustrating through stories, fiction, prose, poetry, essays – or any media – that can convey a message is not easily forgotten if it captures one’s attention from the start. Words live on in print only if saved and read, never destroyed: every writer’s dream. But, now with the myriad ways our words and images can live on through cyberspace one can leave imbedded impressions there.

In my writing I have used a variety of different forms, or format. I have rhymed simple poems and stories for the sake of just having fun at what I do, whether doing it for myself or for children. Not all of it will make sense, but neither did Dr. Seuss’s writing, while rhyming when he wrote children’s books. He was one of the best, and most known for communicating to children with his scrambled made up phrases and rhymes. His books are all favorites of mine and I love to read them aloud to myself and to my grandchildren. The old Mother Goose stories and rhymes are favorites of mine too. I think there is a sense of freedom and free style to today’s writing that can have a message, or maybe not, if it is written for the sole purpose of entertaining. That is OK, even if there is a lot that even I cannot relate to. But, it is the writer’s style all his, or her own that brings pleasure and satisfaction, however it is written, or for whom.

Whether to entertain the reader, to write for the pure joy and pleasure of writing, or to communicate a message of truth and conviction, there are things I write that I will share with the public, and other things I do not, reserving them for just myself, or for my family, friends, or for God. Not everything a writer writes will be enjoyed by some, but as a writer, we express, we communicate, we entertain. Some (people) will think some pieces sad, some will think some pieces bad, and maybe other things will just make some mad. But, it is the ‘craft’ of writing I work at, the tool I use to communicate, the voice I use to speak what I feel, what I want to say. Feedback and comments are always welcomed. All are a learning lesson. I am teachable.

Posted June 5, 2012 by Joyce in Writing

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