Thick frosted branches
Coated with fresh fallen snow:
Winter is now here.
_____________
Joyce E. Johnson © 2013
Archive for the ‘Secular poetry’ Category
Announcing; Winter in Colorado
MIDNIGHT QUEEN (Part 2)
Midnight Queen
It was the eve of Halloween
when all but the moon
went dark and unseen,
except for the glow
of lanterns lit
along the street
on Madison Row.
When down the walk
came Midnight Queen
looking for food,
or mice to stalk.
A pumpkin like torch,
with a smiling face
sat perched on a porch
when a door opened wide,
and a quaint, old woman
welcomed her inside.
Dressed all in black,
she had light-colored eyes
that glowed and twinkled
like the stars in the skies.
Could this be fate,
for Midnight Queen to
a find a home on
Halloween?
______________
Joyce E. Johnson (2013)
Share this:
A seed planted…
A seed planted, hides
In soil watered till blossomed
Kissed by the sun, grows
___________________
Joyce E. Johnson
Share this:
Where are the nuts?
Hey! Where are the nuts?
This is not acceptable!
And birds eat this stuff?
_______________
Joyce E. Johnson
Share this:
Spring Roses
Garden fresh bright red
Roses fill my crystal vase
Bringing spring indoors
________________
Joyce E. Johnson, 2013
Share this:
Show me…
Show me that you care
To be the friend I can trust
With no strings attached.
______________
Joyce E. Johnson
Share this:
Sunny Days
I can hardly wait
For bright sunny days to come
To plant my spring blooms
_____________________
Joyce E. Johnson
Share this:
THROUGH THE NAKED EYE
THROUGH THE NAKED EYE
With careful steps I place my feet
between large boulders that hug the ground
and rocky mounds of prickly scrub,
and listen with earnest ears the sound
of raptors large that soar in flight
to peaks: their summits reach the skies
far beyond my naked sight.
Where is one greater, a scene to view
a mountain sought, on land or sea
where one’s eyes can travel to
these lofty, high majestic heights
for the traveler passing through?
_____________
Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson – 2013
Share this:
THE RETURNING SAILOR
The below story poem is a narrative ballad I wrote many years ago. I posted this last June on my blog, but am re-posting it for this week’s word prompt on Geraldine’s Woven Dreams: A Creative Prompt Blog. This week’s word prompt is alive. I hope you enjoy the story and comments are always welcomed.
__________________
THE RETURNING SAILOR
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
Share this:
THE PROMISE OF SPRING
When I look out my window
And I see fresh snow
I wonder when, and where is spring.
But, to every season
And for all, I know
There is a right time
For all that blooms has yet to open.
Maybe not now: they are but buds,
But nurtured they will grow,
And with that they promise
That spring is here,
The season will blossom,
And the time is right
For my lilies to bloom.
_______________
Joyce E. Johnson – 2013
Share this:
COMING TOGETHER
COMING TOGETHER
Like a word, or a sentence, a phrase or verse
it is but a piece, yet a necessary part;
But to the reader, must impact, or connect
and weave it must, down into their soul,
each word a necessary part of the piece,
like threads or strands fit to the form
they weave in and out, perfectly placed,
side by side, and through the grain,
all coming together like one as a whole
the story made stronger till unified;
But, if one word weaves not to shape,
hold the story, mold or create,
it must be pulled out, for it will weaken
the piece of work or art just made;
then the finished whole of a project completed
will stand alone, and be made strong.
Often times it’s much like life
trying to fit together as one
like the phrases or words
created and shaped:
its become the lesson for
the weaver in me.
_________
Joyce E. Johnson, 2013
Share this:
The Night The Lights Came On At The Plaza
The below story is fiction. Formatted to be read like a poetic prose. It is my submission for this week’s Friday Fictioneers writing group based on a photo prompt, hosted and led by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Comments and feedback are welcomed.
*************
I’d not been back in years, but the memories still fresh.
All that happened out on the square.
The night the lights came on at the Plaza.
The years passed slowly. I had no news
where to look, or if he’d married.
Then I get a call and he wants to meet.
At the sidewalk café where we sipped our wine, and
I lost myself in his aqua blue eyes.
He left suddenly, with no explanation.
A man too mysterious, with too little to give back.
There he is, waiting and watching,
like a spy coming out of the cold.
Joyce E. Johnson
*******************
Share this:
WAY BACK WHEN I COULDN’T COMPUTE
WAY BACK WHEN I COULDN’T COMPUTE
Way back when I was young, and in school there was once
A time when I couldn’t ‘download’ or ‘install’.
My brain would not ‘process’, and I felt like a dunce.
I needed a tutor, but who could I call?
I suffered through ‘overload’, a ‘surge’, and a ‘crash’,
Didn’t ‘click’, or ‘hook’ on to every ‘program’ taught.
There was always the ‘geek’ who caught on in a flash
They could ‘update’ and ‘process’ every ‘dot’ and ‘dash’.
To be like him, or her I needed to ‘upgrade’.
But how to get my brain to ‘compute’,
‘Protect and secure,’ every ‘password’ and ‘name’,
And ‘send’ and ‘mail’ it all back to my brain
Where it would stay ‘saved’, ‘backed up’, and remain
Forever in ‘memory’ with no loss, stress or strain.
Joyce E. Johnson
The above poem was submitted to Reason 2 Rhyme using a Monday word prompt
*****************
Share this:
Poem – THE RETURNING SAILOR
THE RETURNING SAILOR
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
Share this:
Poem – THE DUEL
THE DUEL
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.
***************
Share this:
The Forest
The Forest
Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson
There is a knoll of land
Where the pines and fir still stand,
As if at attention answering the call
They receive the birds and game of small.
The winds carry their song
Through the nestled branches long.
It is to those that find
With solace to the mind
A place kept to retreat
Where the air still smells of sweet
Flowers growing wild,
Pines that drop their fruit,
And leaves that follow suit.
For all the seasons to come,
And all the seasons of past
This knoll of land lies in wait
And beckons to be last
To join the host of trees that boast
To greatness lest they fall
To fate, succumbed, cut and quartered
They surrender to the saw.
**********
Share this:
THE OAK and the STARLING
starling on a tree (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
THE OAK AND THE STARLING
By Joyce E. Johnson © 2006
Like breezes that blow scattering leaves astray
So it was with the starling from the north that day.
Carried to earth some distance away
By the wind’s strong force, on the ground it lay.
Like a tiny glider it was off on its own,
Having traveled so far its venture unknown.
It was quick to land and needed rest
For it grew too late to build a nest.
Now like a tower there stood strong, but not still
A tree of might, of force, and will.
Its branches did sway with ease and grace,
And rooted so deeply down under its base
Was the largest trunk he had ever seen.
And so it was with this starling so keen
Who grew weary and afraid for the night had begun
To consume the light left behind from the sun.
Where can he take his refuge this night?
The leaves floated down, airy and slight.
He gathered them into a crunchy warm pile,
Then snuggled down in it to rest for a while.
The tree stood proud as a sentry in view,
And like a protector to the starling it knew
This would make a good place for the bird to nest,
For the Oak was the biggest, wisest and best.
The hours passed on and daylight broke.
Breaking the silence the starling spoke,
“What kind of tree must you surely be,
that you stand with greatness over others that I see?
That you speak with age and dignity,
Yet, share your covering, I will not forget;
Your strength and fortitude to me you let.”
Tree leaves rustled. The limbs would creak.
The staunch, old giant began to speak,
“The rings on my trunk tell my history be it told
that I am an Oak and a hundred years old.
I’ve sheltered many a wildlife and prey.
But they soon move on and cannot stay.”
The starling found twigs for his nest to assemble.
The tree fanned its breezes, a soft like tremble
Sending its whispering covers to rest
On the starling, his friend asleep in its nest.
**************
Share this:
Redeeming the L…
Redeeming the Lost
By: Joyce E. Johnson
The wandering lone man sat down by the track.
He could not hide nor change the fact
While watching people board the train,
That he smelled no better than the sewer drain.
His body sick, and tired in its shell,
Aching from the cold grew accustomed to the smell.
He could once pick from hats, and socks
When he stayed at the shelter down by the boat docks.
But another man forced him outside on the stairs
When it became crowded. Now his socks had tears.
He still had the marks from when he was beaten.
He lost count of the number of days he’d last eaten.
He could remember when he was young
Recalling the words from his mother that stung,
“I can’t keep you. Fend for yourself.”
Then left in a hurry with no food on the shelf
She packed and ran off with some strange man
Leaving him alone, saying, “I’m going with Stan.”
The experience turned his heart to stone.
He had no other place to live or call home.
He raised his head as if hearing a sound.
He’d fallen asleep on the damp, hard ground.
Blinking with wonder what appeared was a vision
Stood a figure beside him; not scorn or derision
Helping him up from the ground where he lay
His touch comforting, not a word did he say.
The sound of singing and joyful noise heard
From a candle lit hallway soft music spurred
Him to follow the angel into the light
Of a church that welcomed him to dinner this night.
A splintered old cross was raised on one wall,
Loincloth and crown of thorns lay propped in the hall.
While seated and served in the banquet room,
He heard about a Savior, and an empty tomb.
From out of the clutches of despair and strife,
Walked a wandering, lone man into redemption and life.
*******************
