Goblin Stew

I'm going to the pumpkin patch

now with a scary plan to hatch.

Some little goblins I will catch,

and then their heads I will detatch,

and chop them up to make a batch...

a batch of goblin stew from scratch,

the likes of which no mix can match.

And then I'll give a bowl to you

for I am sure you'll like it too

much better than that awful goo

they sell down on the Avenue.

That stuff I cannot bear to chew!

I make a face like Depardieu

when'er I eat it. Yes I do.

Oh yes I do. I swear it's true!

And if you ate it you would too...

So take a tip from one who knows

that goblin stew mix really blows.

It's nothing like the label shows.

You'll find it's mostly made from crows

and artificial goblin toes -

the kind that never decompose.

I would not feed it to my foes!

But I digress. Now I must leave.

I've many goblins yet to cleave.

Goodbye,

and Happy Hallows' Eve!

The Wonderful World of Color

You still see ‘em from time to time - hotel signs that advertise “Color TV”.  It’s the mark of an old sign for sure, but people my age hardly give ‘em a second thought. To young people though it must be like seeing a hotel sign that boasts “Indoor Plumbing!” Most kids these days have never even seen a black and white TV set, so they can’t imagine anything special about a new-fangled color model. Well young readers, you’re all a little spoiled… Why I can still remember when we got our first color mirror. That’s right kids, I had to brush my teeth in front of a black and white mirror until I was 6 years old. Don’t believe me? Go ask your grandfather.

And about those first hotels to advertise “Indoor Plumbing,” I can still hear Great Grandma Margaret saying, “Let’s stop here Frank, they got indoor outhouses,” and Frank saying, “That’s unsanitary Margaret. Outhouses need fresh air blowing through ‘em. You won’t catch me sittin’ on one of them in-the-house flush toilets.” And so Frank and Margaret continue on down the road in search of traditional accommodations. Yes folks, today’s TVs, computers, phones, and even mirrors are all in color now, but to us older folks the past will always be more colorful.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Highway Hazard

Inspired by an actual Montana driver

Highway Hazard

He drove it
like he stole it
and he drank
like a boss...
until he finally
put his own name
on a roadside cross.

Burma Shave

R.L. Johnson

Jerry the Ant

The future keeps a tight lip.

The past just won't shut up.

The architect that

cranks the wheel 

keeps coffee in its cup.

Miss Karma sips on sweet tea 

and waves a paper fan;

and Jerry heads

to work again

in a primer-gray sedan,

were cities grow like ant hills 

in fields of golden corn,

and ants for miles 

keep pressing on

the gas and break and horn.

And Jerry keeps a tight lip.

His head just won't shut up.

Then he runs a light 

and cranks the wheel...

Jerry, please wake up.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

#AhmaudArbery

I thought I would edit this before considering if finished, but decided not to. The following was my gut response last week after reading about Ahmaud Arbery's murder.

Ahmaud

I do not want
my white privilege.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It does not hurt me
I confess.
It makes my life easy.
It helps me, it does.
It hurts others -
the non-members
of my club -
the white club.
I'm in the club,
though I did not sign up.
I get the benefits,
though I pay no dues.
The non-members
pay my dues.
Black and brown people
pay my dues.
It's a screwed up system.
It builds walls to keep
brown people out -
walls to keep brown
people in - corridors
to push them
this way, and that.
It replaces walls
with minefields and
calls it progress.
It taunts, it lies, it exploits.
It kills, it kills, it kills.
But it helps me.
But I want to reject it.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It leaves me
standing in mud -
in the mud of
a shameful past.
It leaves us all standing
in the mud of
a shameful past -
and the mud is still here
because the blood and
the tears still flow.
The mud will not dry
because the blood and
the tears still flow -
the blood of young men,
the tears of mothers.
The endless tears
of an entire race
keeps moist the mud -
a mud first formed
from the sweat
of their ancestors -
the builders of America.
I step up, but I sink
back down.
My life is easy,
but my feet are dirty.

R.L. Johnson 5/7/2020

Mirror Mirror

Driving home from the store this morning I thought, I wonder how fast I’d have to go to make my side mirrors flap back against the side of the truck? I cogitated on the question for a moment – gathering up the variables in my mind – wind force, air resistance, mirror bracket tension, barometric pressure, relative humidity, and so forth… Heck, just give ‘em all a number – add, divide, and multiply in all the right places – maybe throw in a square root or two, and “POW!” you got your vehicle speed. But I’m not very good at doin’ algebra in my head, so I skipped ahead to the practicality considerations of the matter. If I’m driving fast enough to make my mirrors flap back, I’m probably not gonna need my mirrors - so no reason not to do it… Unless the guy behind me is trying to make his hood ornament fly off, but that would be highly unusual, so I figured I wouldn’t worry about that. At this point of my pondering, I was just cresting the top of Graham Hill – the perfect place to try to go 900mph in a Toyota Tundra. Should I? Shouldn't I? then I realized – if my mirrors flap back, the improved aerodynamics would likely propel me beyond 1,000mph in an instant. Well that would surely add a mile or two to my stopping distance should a rabbit jump out in front of me… not to mention I’d blow past my turn up ahead… So I proceeded home at my normal speed. Up near 288th Street I saw a hood ornament laying on the side of the road… I know what you’re thinkin’…  Man! He must have been flying!

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Gallery Phantasm

"Go ahead,"
I say, distracted,
"I'll catch up,"
but I don't.

Instead I stand
mesmerized by an
inexplicable light - by
cascading dapples of
brightness beams and
sparkles, flying like
diamond-shot bursting
from unseen artillery.

Standing steadfast
before me, with light -
this bright insoluble
light at its back,
a grove of ancient
trees lifts its golden
canopy high upon
silhouetted branches.

Beyond the trees -
behind a grassy ridge,
an army of rebels
fighting darkness with
torches and ramrods,
tamp luminance deep
into black iron cannon
barrels. From here they
fire volley after blinding
volley into the trees
as they have without
pause for centuries.
Cannon light crashes
through the wood,
rips through the canvas,
and scatters at my feet.

I approach closer,
spellbound by the
dancing illuminations
that backlight the
dry spice colored
leaves of these
deep-rooted trees.
I stare through the
wizened foliage,
following flecks of
silver glint backwards,
deep into the scene -
deep into the painting
that hangs before me.

I look beyond the
stillness and into
the motion of the
brush strokes;
at the light flitting,
at the leaves rustling,
floating, falling -
scuttling along
the forest floor -
pushed by winds,
and pulled by time. 

I watch sinuous bands
of fog hang lazy o're
the grassy ridge.
Rising above the fog
climb layer upon layer
of dark foreboding
mountainous rock,
pressed down by a
moody autumn sky.

"Go ahead,"
I said, distracted,
"I'll catch up".
But I didn't.

A new assemblage
of gallery patrons
now mingle around
me - murmuring at
the painting with
the backlit trees.
They observe it, nod,
and move on from
frame to frame, fading
from my notice until
their mumbled voices
fall and blow away
across the floor.

After the chamber
empties of all eyes
save mine, and the
last footfall's echo stills,
the painting begins
to increase its
animated activities.

At first it moves almost
imperceptibly. Then
with the intricacy and
dexterity of a woman
removing her bra
while fully clothed,
the painting slips out
of its frame and hangs
adrift in the cool air,
slowly undulating.

Then in tones that are
neither sound nor color,
the escaped painting
cries out - summoning
its creator. Time and
distance bridge like
water drops bumping
and joining together.
Out of nothingness
the artist with his
tools appears, and
the unbound work
settles lightly on its
old master's easel.

I lean and look over
the painter's shoulder,
watching his arm and
brush as they sweep
hither and thither
serpent-like, adding,
blending, pushing
and pulling colors
across the canvas.

Aromas of oil and
solvent, pigment,
and earth, fill the air.
Then, as one might
see by turning a
kaleidoscope wheel,
the scene multiplies.
Sounds erupt in
multiple languages
and the room fills
with a flurry of activity.

Painters by the dozens
are working on their
canvasses along every
wall of the gallery.
They work with
instruments large
and small, with strokes
long and short, light
and bold - applying
pigments of every hue.

Eventually one painter
sets down her brush
and walks to another
easel. Each artist in
time does the same -
pausing to admire
the creativity of others.
Some stand gazing
into the past, while
others stand gazing
far into the future.
All are connected -
connected forever
through the conduit
of their art, and the
conductivity of the paint.

R.L. Johnson, 2020