Prelude to Winter

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.

©p.johnson2012

Some People I Have Known

She refused the proffered gift of a dead bee.
It may have been indeed, propinquity.

He left the sugared drink, in favor of tea.
It must have been the bioavailability.

Sometimes writers think they need to cuss.
I think: a simple case of mumsimus.

Her perfect pitch, to the choir was supplemental.
Strange, because she was so occidental.

She showed me how to make her sauerkraut.
What years of fermented dreams were all about.

They taught me all the perils of unbelief.
When I grew up to be good-oh such relief.

The offer of a friendship met deaf ears and cold reception.
To a lesser person, ‘twould result in sure defection.

©May2017.p.johnson

Fabulously Average

I don’t get noticed, ordinarily.
Not because those with me cannot see,

But more because I’m fabulously average.
That unremarkableness is my leverage.

I do not have a following or crowd
and typically I’m just not very loud.

To be a leader isn’t what I need-
don’t really want that job, I must concede.

By definition – neither big nor little;
Average is just right there in the middle.

I’m fairly happy in my quiet place
where there’s no challenge to my poker face.

And I can think my quiet, average thoughts
and be my average self, near my flower pots.

©2017 p.johnson

Late Summer

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.

©p.johnson. Aug.2015IMG_0304

Early Spring

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.

Anthropomorphism

The Geese
congregate on the
Lake in the City because they feel
safe there. 
These havens are for when they
need food and fellowship.  They make these stops
on their way 
south, where it will be warm and sunny. And
they thumb their beaks at hunters.

They look down from their V shaped height, and
feel sorry for the White Geese,who are
slaves to men.  Their ends are sure,
and Pâté is scheduled.
And they can’t
fly.

©October 2012. Pam J.

On to Me

Why do flies
with simple minds
and compound eyes
know when I

have in my hand
with murderous plan
and they disband
from my flyswatter, and

find some other
thing to bother
’till I put down
again my swatter

©Pamela Johnson 2011

Prelude to Winter

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

The Depths of Winter

Though shortened days, encumbered
diminished energy
stored up in memories of warmth
snow’s charming synergy

A sensible reflection
upon my thinking eyes
reveals the quantity of light
is of much greater size

So this twilight’s deception
that thinks a sorry tale
the frolics in the brightness
ignore the winter gale

The skiing and the sledding
born on wings of hope
as light expands the hours
and with the coldness cope

The End of Winter

Until a crocus peeking
tells me of coming spring
beyond, the early bird’s return
and all things taking wing

With all that favored season
to which bring handsome dreams
looks through the seasons of our lives
for this- where summer gleams.

©Pamela Johnson 2012