February 2018
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).
A CITY SCENE
Despite what tourists know,
cities own more than row
on row of dull-red bricks,
sharp elbows, and a haze
of dust. They own, and show
their dwellers, settings thick
with beauty.... As on days
when, like a hardnose guy
suddenly soft, the sky
mellows to snow. And flakes,
bright as cake-icing, make
sidewalks--paths of pillows;
bathe lamp posts till they glow
like the bark on rain-soaked trees.
And when you also see
each walker dabbed flake-white,
each spurred to quickly hide
his snow-wet cheeks inside
lapels pulled visor-tight--
each touched by the same plight:
the scene can flush in flight
not just a love for all
the earth, stone-slabbed or bare,
but for all men, the heirs
to scenes both fair and grim,
a love that, steeple-tall,
churchgoers used to share
during the closing hymn.
previously published in BLOSSOMS OF THE APRICOT
A CITY SCENE
Despite what tourists know,
cities own more than row
on row of dull-red bricks,
sharp elbows, and a haze
of dust. They own, and show
their dwellers, settings thick
with beauty.... As on days
when, like a hardnose guy
suddenly soft, the sky
mellows to snow. And flakes,
bright as cake-icing, make
sidewalks--paths of pillows;
bathe lamp posts till they glow
like the bark on rain-soaked trees.
And when you also see
each walker dabbed flake-white,
each spurred to quickly hide
his snow-wet cheeks inside
lapels pulled visor-tight--
each touched by the same plight:
the scene can flush in flight
not just a love for all
the earth, stone-slabbed or bare,
but for all men, the heirs
to scenes both fair and grim,
a love that, steeple-tall,
churchgoers used to share
during the closing hymn.
previously published in BLOSSOMS OF THE APRICOT
©2018 Robert K. Johnson
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