The Ritual

 With faces as red as a beet
They run for a drink, with their feet
All the trouble they spend
For this annual trend
The making of the horseradish treat

The digging in the frozen ground
With a shovel that has to be sound
In the cold every year
To be done without fear
To spread horseradish smells all around

The contest is deadly almost
To sniff in the vitamix, boast
Who can do it the longest
Right away when it’s strongest
Eyes, sinuses,face are like toast.

The whole house doth smell the same way
Each molecule caught in the fray
Grinding of that strong roots
Can turn even barn boots
Into horseradish odor all day.

©P. Johnson 2006


My cadence doesn’t alter when I pray,
Nor when high and lofty things I think to say.

I cannot bring a soul to godly tears,
Nor can I incite reverential fears.

My writing is not deep unto repentance.
A tendency toward prolix in each sentence.

My life is filled with ordinary ways
and routine things to fill my normal days.

I am content to live life quietly,
in my small corner where no one can see.

©P. Johnson 2012

My Stature Flexes

My stature flexes
And it vexes
When I’m told I’m shorter

But when I’m taller
Bet a dollar
I’ll be fixing it with mortar.

Normal ebb and flow
I probably will grow
Seems only right by logic

This can’t be permanent
Just give me a moment…
…might need a bit of magic…

©Pamela Johnson 2009