August 2016
Robert K. Johnson
choirofday@cs.com
choirofday@cs.com
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).
Two Together
Young, and trying to ignore
the angry shouts between our parents,
my sister and I daydreamed aloud
about someday buying a houseboat
we would dock in seacoast ports
so, at night in our bunks, we'd hear
wavelets lap at the sides of our boat,
or that someday our parents would move
from the city, giving us
the chance for sunlit strolls
along our village's main street
shaded by trees where birds
darted out from the branches' green.
We'd slowly pass the rows of shops,
all built with soft-red bricks;
but we'd stop at the used-books store
and "hello" the owner—his hair
uncombed, his cardigan misbuttoned—
who rushed to show us a book
he'd saved just for our eyes.
Then we'd picnic in the park, where kids
pleaded to go higher on swings
than their parents thought it wise to push them.
Each time we described this stroll,
it became still more detailed
and more...unreal. But we didn't care.
What mattered was our imagining
a haven where love was safe.
(previously published in IBBETSON STREET)
Two Together
Young, and trying to ignore
the angry shouts between our parents,
my sister and I daydreamed aloud
about someday buying a houseboat
we would dock in seacoast ports
so, at night in our bunks, we'd hear
wavelets lap at the sides of our boat,
or that someday our parents would move
from the city, giving us
the chance for sunlit strolls
along our village's main street
shaded by trees where birds
darted out from the branches' green.
We'd slowly pass the rows of shops,
all built with soft-red bricks;
but we'd stop at the used-books store
and "hello" the owner—his hair
uncombed, his cardigan misbuttoned—
who rushed to show us a book
he'd saved just for our eyes.
Then we'd picnic in the park, where kids
pleaded to go higher on swings
than their parents thought it wise to push them.
Each time we described this stroll,
it became still more detailed
and more...unreal. But we didn't care.
What mattered was our imagining
a haven where love was safe.
(previously published in IBBETSON STREET)
©2016 Robert K. Johnson
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