July 2015
Born in New York City (in Elmhurst), I lived in several different places there but have memories only of The Bronx (off Fordham Road). Then my family moved out "on The Island"--to Lynbrook, where we stayed till I graduated from Hofstra (then a College). Several years after my wife, Pat, and I married, we, plus our two children, settled in the Boston area and have remained there (except for my daughter, Kate, who has lived in Manhattan for quite a while). I have been writing poetry since I was twelve (many moons ago).
I Savor
the remembered sight of Long Island sunsets
sliding for close to forever
below a glowing rim of ocean
and of sunsets like red clouds
banked behind Rocky Mountain peaks
until they dwindled into darkness
and of New England sunsets
whose lingering orange silhouetted
the splayed tree branches' blazing blackness
but the sum of my great joy
from these decades of radiant moments
is nothing
compared to how much I hunger to see
any kind of sunset
this evening.
About Joel
I watch you stuff your suitcase
while listening to you talk
non-stop about movies and plays;
then the taxi arrives and you press
the suitcase closed, give me
an over-the-shoulder goodbye
and head for the airport
—until the next time I twist
the bedsheets while I dream
of you packing and bidding me
still another final goodbye
unfinal as death.
Origins
Each time I begin to write a poem,
I re-enter the deep woods
my mother's voice guided me to
while she sat beside my nighttime bed
and told me of a talking wolf,
his eyes glistening with slyness,
who waited for Little Red Riding Hood
to stroll by
or told me of—somewhere else
in the woods—Hansel and Gretel
who were outwitted by birds
that ate the needed route of crumbs
but who, in turn, outwitted
the old witch, warts and all, just in time,
a woods too big for any map
and full—my mother assured me—
of fantastic real people and animals
and dozens of new adventures
waiting to be imagined.
Jean Writes a Remembrance
(about March 13, 1932)
On the day you were born, I sat
in the kitchen window seat
and saw the doctor come
carrying a small black bag
he took into the bedroom
where both my mother and aunt,
a midwife, were waiting for him.
After a time that was
a mystery to me
my aunt came into the kitchen
carrying you, your cheeks
puffy as President Hoover's,
and though I knew you were
too small to play with me,
I fell in love with you.
Soon, the doctor left
because he had other babies
in his bag to deliver that day.
Happy birthday, Roberto.
Love, Jeanette
the remembered sight of Long Island sunsets
sliding for close to forever
below a glowing rim of ocean
and of sunsets like red clouds
banked behind Rocky Mountain peaks
until they dwindled into darkness
and of New England sunsets
whose lingering orange silhouetted
the splayed tree branches' blazing blackness
but the sum of my great joy
from these decades of radiant moments
is nothing
compared to how much I hunger to see
any kind of sunset
this evening.
About Joel
I watch you stuff your suitcase
while listening to you talk
non-stop about movies and plays;
then the taxi arrives and you press
the suitcase closed, give me
an over-the-shoulder goodbye
and head for the airport
—until the next time I twist
the bedsheets while I dream
of you packing and bidding me
still another final goodbye
unfinal as death.
Origins
Each time I begin to write a poem,
I re-enter the deep woods
my mother's voice guided me to
while she sat beside my nighttime bed
and told me of a talking wolf,
his eyes glistening with slyness,
who waited for Little Red Riding Hood
to stroll by
or told me of—somewhere else
in the woods—Hansel and Gretel
who were outwitted by birds
that ate the needed route of crumbs
but who, in turn, outwitted
the old witch, warts and all, just in time,
a woods too big for any map
and full—my mother assured me—
of fantastic real people and animals
and dozens of new adventures
waiting to be imagined.
Jean Writes a Remembrance
(about March 13, 1932)
On the day you were born, I sat
in the kitchen window seat
and saw the doctor come
carrying a small black bag
he took into the bedroom
where both my mother and aunt,
a midwife, were waiting for him.
After a time that was
a mystery to me
my aunt came into the kitchen
carrying you, your cheeks
puffy as President Hoover's,
and though I knew you were
too small to play with me,
I fell in love with you.
Soon, the doctor left
because he had other babies
in his bag to deliver that day.
Happy birthday, Roberto.
Love, Jeanette
©2015 Robert K. Johnson