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Lauren Johnson Poem
Murder in the street!
Damn crows. My car’s sad hurry
towards fate in a name.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
Peter Pan? He is nothing but a tale drawn out,
a hero of half-truths, drowned in fairy dust,
the dullest side of a double-edged sword.
Before my time lost its salt,
before the boards of this ship were
chapped, split with oceans breath,
before my features grew distinct with age,
a treasure map, carved and creased,
I found myself in Neverland,
as the first dear friend of Peter Pan.
His mind, repressed by the adventures of youth,
has forgotten how young I once was.
Even wiser pirates such as myself
must work to picture a single moment.
Its the sea that causes it,
as time curls and crashes like waves
against toothy rocks,
small histories are bound to vanish.
Yet, in my steely snare, just one memory remains:
When Peter called me James.
The roads we drew in play led us to water,
and how empty we found it!
A voyage was our grandest idea.
In agreement we labored,
drew up clean sails, lacquered lumber.
Christened with a sailors poison,
the Jolly Roger in its finest form!
We followed the arms and legs of rivers,
watching as they became larger bodies,
waters unconquered, unkinged.
My calloused hand brushed the helm,
Peter drew his sword,
mortally pressing its edge to my throat.
You or me, James, he said,
to be a captain or a codfish!
With a smug grin he pounced,
cleaving the air with great circles,
the sharp clanging of metal rang in the mist like bells.
My brow so pinched in focus, first wrinkles formed,
til at last, my blade struck his side.
Peter fell, outdone.
Your cockiness has left you bleeding.
With my hand held out,
his eyes grew bright and bursting like broken stars.
With a smile wild and white, he let out a powerful crow:
Aye, but I’m a clever doodle-doo!
Another crow, he dove at the hand that bested him.
A pain, a demon, a hell!
Honest blood from my moral flesh.
A black pain shook my blackening soul,
As I watched a crocodile feast on the gift
God had meant for my own purposes.
Peter crowed once more.
I watched as he flew on,
his blood dripping into my ocean,
my kingdom!
May this Jolly Roger forever tread
upon the waves of a crowing cowards blood.
I accept the role of villain,
the rival of the wondrous, flying boy,
but may you never forget who won the sea,
and who it is the codfish, be.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
On that lovely night
I felt a light
From the present stars
That man on my arm
I’m bound to him
Yet I was not so much in love
I had the theatre
A radiant room
The chandelier gleamed
Bright and gold
Twisting heavy and high in the air
My heart beat rapidly
A production of silver reflections
The dancer was my mirror
The way she danced
I might have danced
It was something miraculous
Familiar and bright
I had stared into a mirror
As he held my hand tight and tender
I was lost
In the sweet and glowing moments
From a stage
In the sweet and glowing moments
From a stage
I was lost
He held my hand tight and tender
I had stared into a mirror
Familiar and bright
It was something miraculous
I might have danced
The way she danced
The dancer was my mirror
A production of silver reflections
My heart beat rapidly
Twisting heavy and high in the air
Bright and gold
The chandelier gleamed
A radiant room
I cherished the theatre
Yet I was not so much in love
I’m bound to him
That man on my arm
I felt a light
From the present stars
On that lovely night
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
I climbed staircase up and up,
my boots were clicking on the floor,
I could hear the laugh of a broken lift
as I wheezed, pulling back the door.
But what was this? Some giant mess,
the hall was filled with boxes, bags,
books and dishes, a sewing machine?
Brown cases bursting internal rags.
“An eviction.” I thought so logically,
as I scooted past the scattered piles,
when a woman resting in a chair
looked up and gave an odd-ish smile.
Startled, I crashed into a cage,
and rattled an ugly bird inside.
Shaking dusty wings it cackled:
“Quiet, or you’ll end up fried!”
“I’m very sorry I scared your bird,
I was only meaning to get by.
If you need help moving out,
I’m not too strong but I could try.”
She crook’d her brow and looked at me
as she picked the stuffing from her chair,
The gold-rimmed glasses on the tip of her nose,
framed a serpent’s blink-less glare.
“I am moving neither in nor out,
this hallway is my spot.
Such lovely doors to look at here!
I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”
Too quickly I responded,
and how I wish that I did not!
“You can’t live in a hallway,
with all the stuff you’ve got.
Think of robbers, burglars, thieves!
The comfort of a lock.
I’m quite sure that there are vacancies,
ask the landlord, come, I’ll knock!”
“All of these are fine I’m sure,
though I’ve never entered any.
But when it comes to choosing one
I’m afraid the choices are too many!
Why choose just one and stick to it?
I’ve got freedom in this hall.
I’ll sooner keep abundance
while I contemplate them all.”
Her eyes were zipping ‘round my face
for any traces of retort.
Raising her brow in victory,
pleased, she gave a winning snort.
I stood my ground and said to her:
“Come now, don’t be sore.
Just tell me why you’d go through life
and never choose a door?”
“I chose this indecision, dear,
as the weather chooses to be rainy.
I think that you might come to find,
that many live a life of maybe.”
That was it! I’d had enough!
I pushed through swells of frocks.
I made my way to my own door
and turned the key inside the lock.
Her crazy eyes, her mindless thoughts,
No one lives that way!
We all must make decisions,
keep the yes and no and burn the grey!
It was then that I stopped and thought
of all the dreams I’ve stowed away.
The maybes I keep inside a box,
a ring, an answer I’ve yet to say.
I myself could never choose a door,
and as this woman lives in a hall,
could I truly blame her home of choice
when good Lord! Don’t we all?
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
Every poet
has a bucket,
yes a bucket,
and in each one
we carry trash
junk litter waste
scrap, anything
and everything
we’ve ever found.
No one wants it.
You cannot help
that you want it.
Sit on the ground
stir its contents
crumpled, dirty,
still, something shines.
Mold the pieces
polished, pristine,
and it’s all yours.
No one wants it.
But you want it.
Keep wanting it,
keep changing it,
say the word “trash”
over, again,
listen until…
it lost meaning.
Such a bucket
will not whisper.
They can’t whisper—
Shh! It’s singing!
Do not spill it,
do not hate it,
defile, reject,
or compare it.
Close your ears to
bucket-bashers.
We are not all
meant for buckets.
Unlucky ones.
The bucketless.
Share you buckets!
Share their figures!
They’re ready now.
Fame? uncommon.
Glory? Hardly.
Revenge? Perhaps.
But joy? Always.
Keep happiness
in your bucket.
Pity those with
flat, fumbling hands
that carry naught.
Share your buckets,
and spread your joys!
They want it now.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
Wicked women, such fearsome things
speak gently, haunting,
holding men with dark and
painted eyes, wretched
whispering, blackened lashes.
Let us watch their craft, with a poison mastery they
win at last: cause the blissful men to blister.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
His love was
warm as a fire
strong as a storm
deep as a dream
and white as a lie.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
The left hands we carry,
that imitates so well what
we call ‘the right’
keep telling us
there is nothing to it,
because they can do it,
and eventually they will
correct whatever it was
that caused the problem
of not being able to cool down
with just an inch of water
lapping against our toes,
which persuasive hands
have told us was fixable
because reality isn’t fixed,
leading us to believe
that eventually water
might start flowing upwards
in the brilliant, magical lie
told to gravity,
who insists upon its planetary truth,
which leading left hands ignore,
while the passive ones
obediently disregard truth
as an issue because fact is
offensive in both its smell
and its gait, causing those that
insisted we needed a king,
insisted we needed
a list of what is wrong,
insisted that we choose
which bullet is more painful
than the other, to wear the
self-appointed title of
‘Judge,’ even though it was
never our decision to make,
because we are still
arguing with the ineffable
about which way
is up.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
Tameness is a binding hell!
I’ll keep you wild
I’ll keep you well.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Lauren Johnson Poem
I would like to meet the man,
who claims to own a cloud.
I’ve heard that after a beer or two,
he’d yell out drunk and proud:
“See that cloud over there?
The one beyond that tree?
Well that cloud is mine, ya hear?
Its rain belongs to me!”
It could be a tale that’s told to those
whom logic and reason rule,
but I know of three men who’d say
believe the drunk old fool!
“Now how is that?” three young men asked,
“What rights have you to that claim?
Is that cloud quite loyal to you?
Only fools think clouds are tame!”
“You’re wrong! You’re wrong, all of you,
It’s just like you own your cars.
Who are you to tell me what is mine?
Does Orion not own his stars?”
“Prove it to us! Proof! Proof!
Let us see it with a sober eye!”
“Alright, okay, if it’s proof you need,
but you should know a drunk don’t lie.”
The three got up and followed he
who claimed the cloud was whipped,
As they walked, those men agreed,
that last drink he should’ve skipped.
Beneath the cloud he raised his arms,
and spoke his vocal twitches:
“Cloud, rain floods upon these men,
and drown the sons of bitches!”
Those three laughed at the drunken man,
until they felt a drop.
Then another, and then it poured,
the raining wouldn’t stop.
Water rose above their necks,
one of the three let out a cry:
“Why is it that we’re swimming here,
while you stay comfortably dry?”
“I told you dolts this cloud was mine,
and a fool you made of me!
Quiet now, and drown in silence,
for soon your Maker see.”
“Make it stop, we believe!
This cloud is surely yours!
No more will you hear from us,
just please, close heaven’s doors!”
The rain stopped quite suddenly,
ending the three men’s pain.
Walking away he turned and said:
“I’ll bill you for the rain.”
Yes, I would like to meet that man
If he brings his cloud to town,
for there are a number of fools living here,
all of which I’d like to drown.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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