As the world Turns…

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.




No more poems (heavy sigh)

I think that there shall never be
a poem written again by me.
Or if there is it won’t be good
or deep or thoughtful as it should.

It isn’t that I do not want
to write some prose in lovely font
Meaningful words in clever ways
arranged all in breathtaking lays

or rhyming, funny, laughing verse
even pointed lessons terse.
These things I want to flow from me
But alas, I fear ’twill never be.

© 2011 P. Johnson


No Inspiration

I have no inspiration to write anything today,IMG_0133
not for rhyming or free verse or even essay.
I take notes or take pictures to find one somehow
but large thoughts just won’t happen, my mind disallows.

This verse is not something, I’m just doing this~
avoiding the cleaning, packing and gardening bliss.
My mind isn’t in it, I simply can’t think
no cohesive words can I put into ink.

So if suggestions would help I would use them for fun,
but I cannot create from another’s inspiration.
So I force this form of crabby into some lines
with minimal form and very minimal confines.

Like a round salad bowl into a rectangle cooler,IMG_0132
I just shove it in without using a ruler
to make sure it fits and be all organized
to a calculus problem, all formalized.

I need to finish this ‘cause I’m tired of my focus:
once again, here we are, with myself as the locus.
So I’ll put it all down til true inspiration comes calling;
must get back to real life and to that I’ll quit stalling.

The Problem with Pockets

The problem with pockets you’d see
if living at my house with me.
When leaving the room,
quickly causing my doom;
and the tear you could easily see.

They caught on door handles (past tense).
In recent years I have learned sense.
To be knocked on the floor,
as I’m leaving the door;
The embarrassment’s very immense.

My dignity’s under repair,
since the days of my pocket’s despair.
Sketchy, on a good day
ignominy at bay
“no more pockets” I simply declare.

So pocketless I must go on.
Where to put my Kleenex and crayon?
That is what capes are for.
Don’t catch *that* on the door!
I’ll put stuff in my purse, thereupon.

More or Less

It is a quandary common to
My age and gender and if you
Will hear between the lines.

My anxious thoughts go round again
Decisions should be just so plain
I weigh the options mine.

To gain will stretch the wrinkles well
To lose -with distance-may look swell
All is ancient must not whine.

excess adipose tissue will
Very cheaply wrinkles fill
A Trojan horse.

The losing of much weight
May make me feel great
Difficult of course.

These things of mine

Large King James sitting way up front
with fluffed up feathers taking notes
These pompous things distract me

A new thought thrills us
rhyming into poetry or a talk
we feel more love that day
These self-centered things detract me

Traditions that mean something to the group
that hold more firmly than a verse in scripture
though thread and ropes attempt to tie it
These dried up things despise me


They would’ve made a good poem

I lost my thoughts from winter
And it seems a wasteful thing
All because I penned them not
while midnight bells did ring

All dark and rich and flavorful
Thick blackness in my cup
I tipped it up and looked at it
Then drank the whole lot up

Through frightened forest frantically
Through cobwebs and the moss
I headed North despairingly
Before life was a loss

But now my fears, anxieties
Are tucked under the rug
I’ll stomp them down ignoringly
Contentment like a drug

This silent battle cycles
Underneath the cloak of life
If I can keep it hidden
My success will be my strife

©Pam Johnson 2008

The icons call their comfort.

The icons call their comfort out to me,
the something solid and that I can see.

I know to go there, is idolatry
and with the doctrine I do not agree.

The consolation or even relief
can not completely come from that belief

or from veneration of an amulet.
None can release me from oppressive debt.

A talisman can neither save nor aid
and in the end I will have been betrayed

by sacrificial, artificial works
or ecclesiastic, ministerial quirks.

I will not be mislead (she grits her teeth)
by lovely practices that are beneath

what words say simply in that greatest book,
I must have once again another look.

Solution is a simple one and yet
distractions cause me to forget my way.
I wish that I would run the race and get
a “well done faithful servant” on that day.

©Pam Johnson 2012