October 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).
1960—Newly Married
Bent over, you furiously
push the iron back and forth
over my helpless shirt
and, in a tone that takes
no prisoners, declare,
"I'm not ironing shirt sleeves
any more."
My voice--rattled
for the first but not
the last time--protests,
"But, Pat, how can I wear
wrinkled sleeves?"
You reply, "Put on
long sleeve sweaters!"
and I fall in love with you
all over again.
Previously published in SARASVATI
Then Comes
the morning you awake
and realize the little bird
of joy that, unbidden,
used to circle above your days
in air radiant as childhood
has flown far away
into the sky's deep blue.
And learn
that from now on the happiness
still possible for you
is not a fluttering bird
but a foot traveler,
grizzled, straggly-haired,
who carries a backpack
strapped to his shoulders,
and every so often tramps into view,
smiles and offers to share
the cool delicious water
in his dented canteen
before he moves on down the road.
Previously published in Ibbetson Street
Pas de Une
Our cat settles
her greyness
in a chair.
Her chin decides
it is tired
and makes both front paws
a pillow;
her back, thinking
"Yes—a nap,"
sags cushionward;
all her other parts agree.
A seamless whole,
she holds the position
and sleeps.
Previously published in Reach Poetry
1960—Newly Married
Bent over, you furiously
push the iron back and forth
over my helpless shirt
and, in a tone that takes
no prisoners, declare,
"I'm not ironing shirt sleeves
any more."
My voice--rattled
for the first but not
the last time--protests,
"But, Pat, how can I wear
wrinkled sleeves?"
You reply, "Put on
long sleeve sweaters!"
and I fall in love with you
all over again.
Previously published in SARASVATI
Then Comes
the morning you awake
and realize the little bird
of joy that, unbidden,
used to circle above your days
in air radiant as childhood
has flown far away
into the sky's deep blue.
And learn
that from now on the happiness
still possible for you
is not a fluttering bird
but a foot traveler,
grizzled, straggly-haired,
who carries a backpack
strapped to his shoulders,
and every so often tramps into view,
smiles and offers to share
the cool delicious water
in his dented canteen
before he moves on down the road.
Previously published in Ibbetson Street
Pas de Une
Our cat settles
her greyness
in a chair.
Her chin decides
it is tired
and makes both front paws
a pillow;
her back, thinking
"Yes—a nap,"
sags cushionward;
all her other parts agree.
A seamless whole,
she holds the position
and sleeps.
Previously published in Reach Poetry
©2016 Robert K. Johnson
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