Summer days are numbered,
I feel it in the air.
The flowers lift their vacant eyes
beneath their tired hair.
The sun that rises further south
and sets just further same,
is just not there as many hours
and nature can’t reclaim.
Thicker fur on kitty cats,
the deer begin to Know,
and gardens find their way to shelves
to ward the coming snow.
I might bethink it sadder still,
death’s Fairchild – winter snow;
just an illusion looking close
as you and I both know.
My scratchy eyes are due to saving daylight;
I tried to sleep more to avoid the strain.
It hasn’t helped and I don’t really look right;
I’ve missed – with grease and coffee – now a stain.
I get this clumsy way when morning’s early;
groping for the coffee in the dark.
Better not to talk, so I’m not surly.
and my tripping on the dog will make him bark.
I think I’ll miss that hour until the autumn,
when we are supposed to get it back.
Up coming day length definitely will help some,
and summer sun will put red eyes on track.
I lost my cherished daily friend
one morning late when she
went far too near untimely end
and courted immortality.
No prayers would change or keep,
nor tears as tribute alter
her final churchyard sleep
and all those left to falter.
There was no help or counsel,
no arguments to end.
All youthful bliss had taken wing,
reality to bend.
Changed autumn to a spectre;
with colors muted gray,
corporeal days had faded,
with every one that way.
Time has not replaced her.
The season still looms dark,
though not as chilly as before,
the deepness, not as stark
I did not solve that riddle
for years and ages, hence
the end of summer always will
be daunting, as a fence.
Laundry hanging in a row,
Why does catbird mock me so?
Praying prayers it cannot see,
Assenting quiet woe is me.
Faithful Witness, give me grace
for this next test that I must face.
Am I not strong enough to bear?
Lines on face show me the wear.
Going where I should not tread
Captive thoughts I will not dread.
I am afraid to offer me
But that I do, it must be free.
Please take, my Lord, all thoughts of mine
and bend them to the will of Thine.
If given not, I may betray
leading off the narrow way.
I need great wisdom and I ask
to be made stronger for my task.
To die in service, simple sounds
Compared to living here, earthbound.
So I must trust that Faithful You
When I am faithless You stay true.
©Pam Johnson 2007
“When my anxious thoughts multiply within me, Thy consolations delight my soul” (Psalm 94:19)
Each Spring is winter’s absolution
Past winters long forgotten
those things that winter killed are laid to rest.
Survivors bloom with graciousness;
holding no grudges,
keeping back nothing for vengeance’ sake.
The Drone is a bee quite hilarious.
His purpose, to workers, nefarious.
They make him for one reason
kick him out after the season
But meanwhile he is very gregarious.
The worker bee is sweet to me,
diligent in her stealth.
Her gratitude is plain to see
as she works to gather wealth.
With tattered wings she carries on
in loyalty prodigious.
I watch her working ‘cross the lawn,
with intensity almost religious.
Late flowers attract a summer sound;
a buzzing so symphonious.
More than just noise, it is profound,
sweet bee voices, euphonious.
And when the nectar’s gathered in,
since ever days of olden;
they concentrate as if to spin
it into honey golden.
Spring – springs in open flowered fancy.
Wings – wing their highest flight’s desire.
Rain’s rains collect to satiate the thirsty.
Sun’s light increasing warmth to heaven’s choir.
Cloud’s clouds shape up to resemble the familiar,
So children can ascribe them other things.
Queen’s bees collect to feed all the auxilliars,
self sacrificing even worn out wings.
By asking will I really find the answer?
In telling will the hearer even care?
We’ve waited oh so long for our creator;
yearning so to meet Him in the air.
© P.Johnson 2014
Two Toads diverged in a greenish wood,
And sorry, I could not hold them both
And be one amphibian lover, long I stood
and looked at one as far as I could.
To where it got squished in the undergrowth;
Then I looked at the other, just as fair,
Its skin had for sure the better claim,
Because it was spotted and shaped like a pear;
The children said, “touch it”, on a dare
But they’d squished this one, too…about the same,
Now, both, that morning equally lay
in state, near the dirt I then dug, quite black
Oh, I kept the first for another day
In the jar of formaldehyde Toadie did lay
I doubted its life would ever come back.
I shall be dissecting this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two Toads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less damaged by,
The “squishing”, and *that* will make all the difference.
© Pam Johnson 2005
~Posthumous apologies to Robert Frost
The worker bee, is sweet to me
as I watch her work, and wonder;
just how can she, stay at that tree
long gathering her plunder.
With panniers filled with pollen, milled
into tiny pellets golden,
and buzzily flies through sunny skies
retracing pathways olden.
Returning back with filled up sack
for the good of all her hive.
She’ll then unpack, this yellow and black,
until she’s no longer alive.