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Angela Johnston Poem
Like a shadow against the twilight
The dark beast gallops gracefully
Majestic. Mighty. Magnificent.
His long, flowing mane and whipping tail
Like banners unfurled in the wind
As he crosses the verdant field
Ablaze with golden dandelions
His shiny, silky, dusky coat shimmers
Like a sable spectre in the setting sun
His raw, rippling Muscles
His power and strength
And a pure unbridled force
Demand respect.
His trot like thunder
Echoes in the distance.
His neigh, like the crepuscular call
Of a wild, magical beast
Reminds us that he is a perfect, living portrait
Of his ancestors, the wild mustangs.
Tempest is his name,
And a torrential tempest flows
Through his pulsating, pumping veins.
Copyright © Angela Johnston | Year Posted 2014
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Angela Johnston Poem
Autumn
Some say autumn is sad
It has it’s moments
Rain , mist, dying nature...
Stillness in the air,
Cold, crispy days
Bonfires, burning leaves...
I say autumn is joyful,
Happy, outburst of colours
Laughter in the parks,
Children chasing each other
falling into the leaves,
Hunting for acorns
Little treasures hidden
Under the fallen canopy.
Chestnuts, pumpkins,
Pies and hot cocoa...
Gathering, harvesting,
Leaf pile building.
Bullions of gold corn,
Smiling red apples,
Nutty nuts
Delicious hedge fruit
Bounty of nature
Rainbow of colours
Symphony of shades and hues
Tints of autumn
Spell of the Grand Wizard Frost.
Turned leaves, like a giddy spark of
Yellows, oranges, crimson and browns
Glistening glitter
Dance in the wind.
Bright hues of last
hurrah of autumn
Before the white, gloomy
Silence of winter.
Magic of autumn,
Golden Age of the year
With the last leaf that falls
On the muddy ground
One knows that time has come
For another magical time ...
Golden October, Frosty November
Magical December
And with this the spell starts all over again....
13/10/2013
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Copyright © Angela Johnston | Year Posted 2014
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Angela Johnston Poem
Lustrous waves of wheat,
Peppered with blues and reds,
Dancing in the wind,
Slowly swaying, rippling,
Flap and flutter,
Tranquil, peaceful,
Sundance of
Rising, dropping,
Rows and rows,
Of rich yellow,
Golden sea.
(20th Aug 2014)
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Copyright © Angela Johnston | Year Posted 2014
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Angela Johnston Poem
The last leaf
And there it is....the last leaf
Stubborn, brave
Holding tight to that branch
Refusing to be the last memory.
It’s colours are fading
Becoming brown and gray and black
Tattered and torn
By the determined breeze
By cold rain and crispy frost.
All the other leaves are on the ground
Said their goodbyes to the tree
Carpeting the pavement, grass
And ground under the paling sun.
But not our little leaf,
Refusing to become
The last memory of summer past.
But the gale is stronger
With a big blow sends our little leaf
On the ground, in the mud
Soggy, forgotten
Tattered, torn,
brave little leaf.
(13/10/2013)
Copyright © Angela Johnston | Year Posted 2014
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Angela Johnston Poem
Old letter
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
Old thoughts laid on the paper many-many moons
ago;
Old ideas hidden in a tattered envelope,
Old feelings gathered on a sheet of paper,
Now yellow and tatty like the envelope.
Who is the sender?
Who is the receiver?
I cannot see..... I cannot tell....
The ink is old, almost invisible;
A few letters, maybe a syllable....hard to guess...
Hard to read......
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
What is your secret?
What are you hiding?
Are you a love letter?
Or maybe just a friendly reply to another
letter lost in time?
Or tear soaked sad thoughts of a broken heart?
Or are you a happy letter, a happy sphere of
thoughts
Shared with someone close,
maybe a friend, a relative,
Or shared with a brother or a sister, a parent
or an aunt perhaps?
Or maybe an official letter starting with
“Dear Sir....or Madam...” .
Little and torn and ragged and
fold in quarters, tatty, old letter
What is your secret?
I am begging you.......reveal!
I am standing here, in the room,
with the letter in my hand;
Quiet, hardly breathing even,
Maybe a miracle will happen....
Maybe the tatty letter like a portal key
Will open up and will beam me back in time
And just as I am stepping out of mist
the sender will
Be brought to light sitting on the porch,
or in the shade of a tree;
Scribbling his thoughts on a silky,
snow white sheet of paper.....
lifting his head now and then to gather his
thoughts and scribble away again....
I am almost afraid he might see me,
So cautiously I step back;
but nothing happens,
and I am still in my room
standing by the window
with this timeworn letter in my hand,
still wondering When? Where? Why? and Who?
And smiling I am thinking at this antique letter
With its long forgotten thoughts,
Maybe it’s not my place to know your secret,
So little letter torn at corners, yellowed in time
Your secret will be safe with me
Well hidden deep
In the belly of my drawer.....
(02.01.2011)
Copyright © Angela Johnston | Year Posted 2014
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