Cabin C.

We did not choose
this voyage.
No one ever does.
Sunlit brochures sit
in dusty stacks
'neath a window
by the agent's door.
"Cruise of a Lifetime"
the cover says,
destination blank.
Nobody dares
pick one up.

There is no line
at the ticket booth
on the end of the pier.
The clerk plays
solitaire all day,
every day.
Nobody pushes
through the turnstile.
Yet every hour
another ship
filled to capacity
leaves the dock.

We left in the spring.
Been shipbound
one year now.
Correction -
you've been
shipbound.
I'm free to take
shore leave
whenever I choose.
But I choose
to stay aboard,
to sleep in your cabin.

No - we did not
pick this voyage.
But we're on
a sound ship.
Captain Blau is as fit
as any on the sea.
Her crew well trained,
well equipped.
From the surgeon's
quarters, to the labs
and imaging facilities,
everything is top-notch.

On Wednesdays
we sit out on the
chemotherapy deck
with other passengers,
encouraging and
supporting one another.
Every night we stand
at the rail, and look
to the horizon.
We make the best of it,
because there is
no other choice.

Saturday night
we went on a date.
You looked in the
mirror as you did
your makeup,
and you laughed
when many women
would have cried.
"I have four eyelashes!"
you said.
"What am I supposed to do
with four eyelashes?"

Then we went topside -
celebrated my birthday -
had a pint of stout
in Blackbeard's Tap Room.
Soon we'll celebrate
your birthday.
This summer we'll return
to the pier.
We will disembark
this ship.
We will drop,
and kiss the ground.

R.L. Johnson, 4/10/2018

Chemotherapy

3 of 3 poems from

Her Cancer Journey

Old and Alone

The old man stormed
into his bedroom,
cursing, searching
for his glasses.

His glasses
watched curiously
from the dresser
as he circled the room.

His hearing aids
on the bathroom vanity
listened intently
through the doorway.

Though he was alone,
his every move,
his every word
was observed.

So sayeth
the dentures
in the jar
on the nightstand.

R.L. Johnson, 2018

Driving There

Packing your things
into our car
this morning,
and driving you
to the city split
my thoughts
in two. Split
my determination
in two. So
if I seemed
uncommitted
to accelerating
when the light turned,
or uncommitted
when our exit came,

it wasn't due
to the early hour.
It was because
my heart at every
opportunity
wanted to turn
the car around
and drive you away
from today,
toward another day.
A day without worry.
A day without fear,
without pain,
without hospitals,
without cancer.

R.L. Johnson, 11/2/2017

Bilateral Mastectomy

1 of 3 poems from

Her Cancer Journey

Leap

Truth
is the narrow

footbridge

spanning the deep

chasm

between us

and our future.

Deception
is a green

wild-eyed belief
that one can leap
to the other side
without falling
into the abyss.

R.L.J. 2017

Going to a Funeral

I got up this morning

to continue my journey.

It’s a long goddamned grind it is.

The trip to my funeral I mean.

I’ve been at it for as long as I can remember,

and even before I can remember

when I didn’t realize where I was going;

when I was a toddler wandering aimlessly;

and later riding my tricycle

half the time in the wrong direction,

away from my funeral,

and toward something else.

Toward something I can no longer recall.

Toward something that became

just the memory of a memory.

Toward something that once was

an audible and visual recollection

that repeated itself again and again

in the back of my mind,

and then slowly faded away.

It was a recollection from another life.

A recollection of the end of that life.

The one before this one.

The one in the wrong direction.

But I’ve been pointed right now

for almost fifty years,

walking the zigzag path

toward my funeral,

knowing full well that I’ll likely drop dead

a few days before arriving.

But with the help of the living,

I will show up on time.

R.L.J. 2017

Goodbye Truth

Alternative facts,

they fall like rain

into gutters of lies

that flood the drains,

causing rivers of hate

to erode the land,

cutting through valleys

and canyons grand,

sweeping the truth

into the sea,

to drift away

conveniently.

R.L.J. Notes on the Trump Administration 2017

The Night Before Christmas

(A visit from the Gray Mouse)

'Twas the night before Christmas at the cat lady’s house.

Every creature was purring, except for a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the cat post with care,

in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The kittens were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of parakeets perched in their heads.

And Mama in her chair with three cats on her lap,

had just settled her brain for a long winter's nap.

When in the next room there arose such a clatter,

she sprang from her chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the kitchen she flew like a flash,

where a cat was attacking a mouse in the trash.

She picked up the mess, “Oh that mouse had to go!”

right after a nerve calming glass of Merlot.

Then what to her wondering eyes should appear,

but twenty-two cats hauling ass in high gear,

pursuing a mouse so lively and quick,

he could turn on a dime, though the floor was quite slick.

More rapid than cheetahs the felines they came,

chasing after that mouse as she called them by name:

"Stop Fluffy! Stop Missy! Stop Simon and Mittens!

"Stop Patches! Stop Muffin! You’ll wake up the kittens!”

The mouse took a left at the end of the hall.

Hid your eyes now ‘cause fur’s heading straight for that wall!

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

so into the baseboard the felines they flew,

each under the other; yes all twenty-two!

They created a pile of tails, and paws,

and noses, and whiskers, and ears, and claws.

Mama refilled her wine, and was turning around,

when back up the hall ran that mouse, kitchen-bound.

He was just a gray blur as he ran underfoot,

and she yelled at her cats once again to “Stay put!”

But her bundles of joy had begun to un-stack,

and were already planning their second attack.

Their eyes, how they darkened! Their claws, oh how scary!

It looked like a scene from an old Tom and Jerry.

Then Mama’s droll mouth, it drew up like a bow,

and then the Merlot, really started to flow.

With the stem of her wine glass held tight in her grip,

Mama finished her drink in four gulps and a sip.

Her face it turned red, she had air in her belly.

She hiccupped and burped, and it tasted like jelly.

She giggled a bit, then she pardoned herself,

and she reached for some catnip she kept on the shelf.

Then a wink of her eye to a peering gray head,

let the little mouse know he had nothing to dread.

Mama sprinkled the catnip. It went straight to work.

Cats pulled in their claws, and they started to smirk.

The effect of that stuff on a kitty-cat’s nose,

is the same as a couple Merlots, I suppose.

She went back to her chair, to her cats gave a whistle,

and they all climbed upon her, like the down on a thistle.

And I heard her exclaim, as she sank out of sight…

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

R.L.J. 2016

Pulling Beets

My garden has no rhythm,
‘cause I pulled up all the beets.
I put ‘em in a basket
to hand out as trick-or-treats.

Yeah, I’m the old man that
at Halloween most kids avoid.
They tried me once.
They tried me twice,
Then some got real annoyed.

So now they pelt my house with eggs
and I throw beets at them.
Last year I won. Oh it was fun.
My last shot was a gem.

It hit that Tommy Perkins kid
upside his big ol’ head.
His mask flew off,
and he went down.
Thought sure that he was dead.

But don’t you worry none,
‘cause every time I tell this tale.
I make it sound a little worse.
Next time I’m goin’ to jail.

And that’s the beauty don’t ya know,
of Halloween and fiction.
You can kill off half the neighbor kids,
and never face conviction.

Just make it gruesome, make it gory,
You can even make it mean.
Then slap your thigh and laugh,
and tell ‘em “Happy Halloween!”
 
The only thing that’s true is
that I picked some beets today.
And if you must know,
then I vacuumed rugs,
and stacked some hay.

Authors Note: The first two lines popped into my head while I was pulling the beets… The rest crept in while cleaning the harvest, vacuuming, and stacking the donkey's winter hay ;)

Broccoli

I ate a piece of moldy bread.
It’s been four days, I’m still not dead.
My pie was walked on by a fly.
I ate it, and I did not die.
Some bug spray got upon my plum.
But still, to death, I don’t succumb.

My spud with sour cream and chive
was tainted, yet I’m still alive.
I drank a beer with funky yeast,
and look at me, I’m not deceased.
I’m not deceased, not in the least.
But now I fear I need a priest…

for there’s broccoli in my soup du jour.
This time I’m gonna croak for sure.

Arthur P. Dale

(While walking the dogs this afternoon my mind wandered and voilà, a poem was born.)

Arthur P. Dale was hunting for whale,
out in the open sea.
Said Arthur P. Dale as he looked o’er the rail,
“Now where do you think they be?”
Then up from the bottom, the jaws of one got him.
No man was more flummoxed than he.
And he woulda fought ‘em, yes he woulda taught ‘em
a lesson or two… or three!

But Arthur was bested, it was uncontested; 
Hors d'oeuvre a la abductee.
And though he protested while being ingested,
t'was nary a chance to flee.
Now Arthur P. Dale resides in a whale, 
out in the open sea.
Tonight he lay pale, somewhere near the tail,
a victim of hyperbole.

Tipping Point

We enter the rapid

off balance.

The current

more than my paddle

sets our course,

and chooses our fate.

A fallen tree

reaching up like a beggar

nudges the side of our canoe.

An observing raven

flies from its branches

loudly calling out its displeasure,

as the river’s icy water envelopes us

quickly and completely.

Rising to the surface

my wife and myself,

our canoe and our gear,

scatter like raindrops

on a freshly waxed car hood,

gripped only by gravity.

My Best Pet Yet

Note: This was written for a poetry prompt. The prompt was "What pet should I get," written in 20 lines or less.

What Pet should I get, or should I get two?

Should I get a duet, or will one creature do?

And where should I keep it, here under my bed?

And if it won’t fit, then my closet instead?

Should it be furry, or covered in scales?

Something that scurries, or has a long tail?

Something that swims, or something that purrs?

And what should I name him, or should I name her?

And where should I look for this new pet of mine?

Should I look in a book, or go shopping online?

Should I look in a guide? Should I look high and low?

Well when I decide, I will let you all know.

Well it’s time to report that I got my new pet!

I named him Mort. He’s my finest  pet yet!

I just went in the yard, and I climbed up a tree.

It wasn’t that hard. I just caught me a bee,

in a little glass jar, with some holes in the lid,

and it may seem bizarre, but here’s what I did.

I gave him his name, “Morton J. Bee”,

then I opened the lid, and I let him go free.

Kayaking the Wandering Stream

The wandering stream of thought
that runs through your mind
is ever flowing,
and ever changing.
Leave it too long,
and you may not recognize it
when you return.
Its altered course,
its newly carved channels,
its deepening pools,
may cause you to wonder,
“Is this really me?”

The evidence of erosion
may frighten you.
Fond memories drifting away
within translucent ripples
my cause you to chase along the shoreline,
trying to hold the stream still in your mind.
But the stream will not hold still.
You must hold still.
Chasing the stream to its end
where it pours with all others
into an ocean of memories
would surly cause madness.

Sit instead on the sandy bank
in the calm of morning,
and observe the flow.
You will soon understand
that the stream deposits
just as much as it washes away.
It sustains life within its waters,
and along its meandering path.
It turns time with its steady current.
Oh, if we could only stop it,
but we cannot,
and we must not try.

These wandering streams of thought
that run through our minds
ever flowing,
and ever changing,
are for each of us alone
to kayak upon.
And the best we can do
is paddle in the present,
trying not to drift
too far into the past,
or paddle too quickly
into the future.

RLJ - 06/12/2015

Scratched Vinyl

I lowered the needle to the record,
carefully.
Bobby Pickett’s name tumbled,
like pants in a dryer;
circling round and around,
on the plastic turntable.

“I was working in the lab late one night,”
it began.
And The Monster Mash tumbled
like bones from the speaker,
filling my bedroom with sound,
at 45 RPMs.

Then it did what it always did. ...It skipped!
“He opened,”
“He opened, He opened,” ...Smack!
“the lid and shook his fist
and said, ‘Whatever happened
to my Transylvania twist?’"

God on the Rocks

A man is just a skipping stone,

his fate delivered when he’s thrown.

He measures time in skips and beats.

In skips and beats each year repeats,

with each one shorter than the last,

until they’re coming way too fast.

And though some lives fly far and straight,

some others meet a different fate.

Some to the left or right will dash.

Some lives are but a single splash.

And God is just a boy on shore,

with a pile of rocks, and nothing more.

A Stone Unturned

Her life came

Her death came

 

Her thoughts

Her dreams

Her words

Her deeds

Lie unwritten

Unrecorded

Unrecalled

 

Her face

Smiles only

In the memory

Of a mirror

On a wall

In a hallway

Irretrievable

 

She was a stone

Unturned

Burning Season

The wood stove needs a cleaning,
And the stove pipe needs it too.
I got a big wire brush on a long thin pole
That I shove right down the flue.

And the soot gets on the rooftop,
And the soot gets in the air,
And the soot gets all over both o’ my hands.
There are fingerprints everywhere!

And the wood pile needs refilling,
And the kindling bin does too,
And the chain saw needs a brand new chain,
But the old one will have to do.

So I head out to the back lot,
With my saw and a pickaroon,
To cut down a tree, that between you and me,
I shoulda cut down last June.

And the sawdust gets in my eyeballs,
And the sawdust gets in my hair,
And the sawdust goes right down the back of my shirt,
And from there it goes God knows where!

And my boots are filled with wood chips,
And my hands are smeared with pitch,
And I’ll shout hallelujah when the springtime comes!
"Cause burning season is such a, ...drag!
 

An American Modern

I’d rather be wealthy than healthy.
I’d rather be lucky than wise.
Book learnin’ page turnin’ grade earnin’
Would surely be hard on my eyes.

So I choose to sit here on my sofa,
Right in front of my high def. TV,
With a cat in my lap, watching hours of crap,
Getting up on occasion to pee.

Yes I’m an American Modern.
The son of a man who worked hard,
So that I could sit here drinking cases of beer,
While the dog shit piles up in my yard.

Yes I’m an American Modern,
And I live the American dream,
Eating Big Mac’s and fries while absorbing the lies,
Fast becoming as dumb as I seem.
  

Lowlife (a poem)

After catching up on the Sandusky trial and reading in the news today that Steven Powel will be out of jail in just 21 months, I had to write this:

To: Steven Powel
Cc: Jerry Sandusky

I’ve got to think a guy like this
Is the lowest of the low.
From where he sits I can’t imagine
Anything below.

So I asked God “Hey why do you
Let creeps like this keep livin’?
Aren’t there people even you
Would say aren’t worth forgivin’?”

And God told me “The paperwork
Has already been done.
Signed and notarized” he said
“The devil gets this one.”

And so I asked the devil “Hey,
What’s up? Are you reneging?”
And he said “No, this guy’s so low
That I’m still busy digging!”

And so you see now guys like this
Sandusky, Powell and others
Would have been dead long ago
If we’d all had our druthers.

But like I said up there on top
These guys are so damned low
That hell is not beneath them yet.
The devil told me so.

The Evolution of Intolerance:

With their cloaks of fear and ignorance wearing thin,
Those who stand against gay equality
Will soon stand before the world
As they stand before their God,
Wrapped only in the tattered cloth of bigotry.

Though less recognizable
Than the white sheets of another era,
The cloth still chafes;
Bleeding, infecting, and scarring
All who continue to wear it.