Robert K. Johnson Verse-Virtual 2016 February

February 2016

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).

Brown Souvenirs in Wintertime

The first remaining leaf
dangling from our oak tree
brings back my father
saying, "You can't learn from a mistake

you don't admit you made." A leaf
hanging onto another branch
is my mother bent over my bed, reciting
the suspense in "The Three Little Pigs."

Another is Eileen, age ten—
her long hair, ripples of strawberry—
the girl that I, age six,
wanted to marry. And the last is my wife

the fall day I first saw her
while she briskly walked across the quad
as if she were, all by herself,
a Fourth of July parade.

Portrait of the Artist as an Artist
for Kate

The crowded photograph sings
of everything hung on the wide wall:
a glistening torrent of
Moroccan metal finely wrought
into vases, baskets, frames
to fit the large mirrors—
all displayed in designs
intricate as dreams

while, subtle
as a whisper, and dressed
in a black that blends
with the dark background encircling her,
her face anonymous
behind the mask of her camera,
is the photographer,
detectable only in one corner
of one mirror's reflection.

(previously published in Ibbetson Street)