October 2015
I'm a businessman and chronic English major who began writing poetry about ten years ago. Sometimes, I find myself switching back and forth between a spreadsheet and an unfinished poem. My first book of poems, Where Inches Seem Miles, was published by Antrim House at the end of 2013. In 2014, Kirkus Reviews selected it as one of the best books of the year in the Indie category. I've benefited from workshops at the Concord Poetry Center and from the journals which have published my work, including Rattle, Blackbird, and Salamander. My website, joelfjohnson.com, includes a few videos where I've attempted to combine a reading with appropriate images.
Cumulus
Last to leave the dock,
he sees mountains
of cumulus and light,
a sky that cannot last,
its execution so perfect,
its scale so epic,
he feels he should
race inside and tell.
But what would he say?
The sky is beautiful.
You’re missing a nice sunset.
Looks like rain.
All that is his,
all that isn’t his
carried up in
those massive clouds.
Another
baroque emotion
too big to bring inside.
Grammy’s Hands Hold
laundry from the line
apples from the orchard
carrots from the garden
a pan a broom a rake a hoe
strong and sure as any man’s
hold us each
to say goodbye in August.
Stands watches and does not wave
goes inside to call the bank
gives it back the farm
checks Daryl into detox
sells Eloise to slaughter
turns the cats out
loads the truck
chokes it
and leaves.
Not a word to us to anyone
the chickens unfed
the Mexicans unpaid
the gate open and the mailbox broken
drives past the dusty rotting needy fields
the blooming green relentless weeds
the old decayed depressing barn
the silos debt and crows
the rust wire and rows of beans
abandoned cars and played-out land
the sacks of seed feed and pesticide.
Moves
only with Earl
(her dog)
to Brooklyn.
Last to leave the dock,
he sees mountains
of cumulus and light,
a sky that cannot last,
its execution so perfect,
its scale so epic,
he feels he should
race inside and tell.
But what would he say?
The sky is beautiful.
You’re missing a nice sunset.
Looks like rain.
All that is his,
all that isn’t his
carried up in
those massive clouds.
Another
baroque emotion
too big to bring inside.
Grammy’s Hands Hold
laundry from the line
apples from the orchard
carrots from the garden
a pan a broom a rake a hoe
strong and sure as any man’s
hold us each
to say goodbye in August.
Stands watches and does not wave
goes inside to call the bank
gives it back the farm
checks Daryl into detox
sells Eloise to slaughter
turns the cats out
loads the truck
chokes it
and leaves.
Not a word to us to anyone
the chickens unfed
the Mexicans unpaid
the gate open and the mailbox broken
drives past the dusty rotting needy fields
the blooming green relentless weeds
the old decayed depressing barn
the silos debt and crows
the rust wire and rows of beans
abandoned cars and played-out land
the sacks of seed feed and pesticide.
Moves
only with Earl
(her dog)
to Brooklyn.
©2015 Joel Johnson