Adirondack Chairs ~ Deborah T. Johnson
Jigsaw puzzle of greenery, the trees
Nestle next to each in the
slicing sideways light of sunset.
The yard in the back is filled with it,
Filled with the late late summer side slant
of sun,
The plastic Adirondack chairs, left, as we left them,
Me, looking at you, maybe my feet
in your lap…
No….. it was the yard man that set them ajar.
The one time we sat there, your discomfort
Grated on my tranquil storybook
Vision, of us sitting
in the sun,
Drinking,
The Wine,
so we went inside.
Now I see them, those pretend plastic,
Pale blue, light blue to match
The house,
chairs of ease,
One chair looking at the other, while
the other stares off into
Space.
We meant to build a fire that
Summer, a fire pit
evening of
Romance.
But, I saw your dis-ease.
Was it the heat? The drone
of the bugs?
The chance of a gnat,
Landing in your
drink?
Or was it,…something
Different.
Something not found
in the sideways slant of
cooling air.
Was it, something
else, off
in that horizon,
Blocked,
by the pale blue the light
Blue house.
Something,
cutting your sight
Off
from the road.
It must have been, because, you said
Goodbye, several times
That summer. A nod, a
kiss, and you were
Off,
in your mind,
because you never
left, but sat in your uncomfortable
Sadness of not
Belonging here, or
Where you thought;
Wistful plans set, a
Blaze not by
Midnight cords of wood
in a pile among the
Rocks.
Set ablaze by whimsy,
A promise, not
Promise.
So, we sat that summer,
and watched the flowers in the
pots bloom,
and the rains carry one
away,
And the gnats gnatting
as gnats do,
Cannon balling into pinot,
taking up
Residence, in that
Pale blue light blue
house
With plastic mountain
Chairs
On the lawn.
Those chairs,
Those, Adirondack chairs
Still sit, still sit askew, still
sit, in the slanting light,
Still sit, waiting,
as I do,
For a time
Things, will be right
with the
World.
We must get, to
the other side, of
That Summer.
Let the snow pile high,
on those Chairs,
Get to, the whimsy, and
the Promise.
Watch down the
road, for a time to
travel, and not sit,
in uncomfortable
Sadness,
Askew in plastic
Chairs.
Competitive Love ~ Deborah T. Johsnon
Competition for her heart, she made
her way down the hall. Checking
doors and windows to be sure no one
gets inside. Stuffing her hands deep
in her pockets, avoiding touch and
caresses. Marking heel scuffs on the
floors. Picking lint from her fingers,
she lifts her hands to pray.
Competition for love keeps
the sunlight out. Drapes of heavy damask
mask the need inside. Drawn and
pulled closed with her praying
hands, she cries into the fabric.
Competition for her heart has long
passed. She breaks the brocade and
peeks outside. Happy couples
coupled by their limbs. Intertwined in
soft possession. Gone for her now.
Gone.
Porcupine Lover ~ Deborah T. Johnson
Like desiring a porcupine.
Each time you decide you want me
And you’ve cleared your head in me,
Before a word or gesture
Turns you cold,
I armor myself, for I need your seed
To make my mind sing in the corners
Where creativity twirls like cotton candy
To a stick.
That’s where you bring me.
Speech and touch, attention and disregard
Gather me up in the spiny place that
Chafes and cuts
In glorious ribbons
The shredded heart
Of the porcupine lover.
BIO: Deborah T. Johnson
Debbie Johnson is a poet, singer, water-colorist and fabric artist living in Raleigh, NC. She writes of love, fanciful fictional people, and her experiences growing up as an army brat. Look for her poetry collection at postpoems.org/authors/djtj. Her blog and art can be found at djtjohnson.com.
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