“……I will be an old lady one day and I will sit on that rock and when I see myself sitting there I see myself happy, with a smile on my face and I feel I have achieved something in this life. I did good and I look at you even if you are not there and say to you: You can be proud of me. This is how much I care for you. This is your effect on me….”
A conversation between a you and an old woman
Old woman !
Look at me: Young, Firm, Virile
My breasts are like pink tufted buds
on the spring azalea
My lips are like the flamingo’s breast –
pink, soft –
My mons – that secret place only we have
is warm, rich, enticing…….
My neck, long and supple
like Helen’s
My eyes are black, olive-round
My smile, would make Mona Lisa blush
with shame.
Old woman !
Were you ever so ?
Did you ever love ?
Did you know passion ?
Look at you……
Your skin droops
Your breasts sag
Your eyes are clouded
Your mons is dry.
Did you ever know love ?
Ah, my young beauty
Once I too was young and beautiful
Men looked at me with longing
I was the object of desire of many.
But two of these, I remember
even in my old age, I remember.
Tell me old woman,
Tell me of your love
Where are these men ?
Where is your love ?
Why do you sit here
on this rock
looking out to sea,
smiling but
alone
alone
My young beauty
I knew a man
who was my husband
I loved him
with my heart and my head
He was my all
I was complete with him
But then, I was destroyed
I found another man
I found I was not complete
I was missing a piece
This other man was my completion
my half.
Oh my young beauty
Oh my daughter
love is a splendid thing
but a dangerous one as well
Like a sword
you may use it to slay your enemies, or
you may handle it poorly
and injure yourself
Such is love
Of my husband I will tell you nothing
This is still too painful to me.
But of the other
Oh my daughter
may I sing to you
of him.
This was a man
older than I
intense as a bonfire
A man who was
unable to love
in half measures
A man who became my greatest love
my friend
my half
A man who once whispered to me
“Let me show you how I would love you”
And, my daughter, he did !
Do not blush
my child
when I tell you that I would see heaven several times in an evening
This was the intensity of the love we had
And more,
we spoke
we walked
we read
we worked
we laughed
we sang – although my daughter a donkey could sing better than he ! –
we read poetry
This man, my half, wrote me poems
from his heart
so much did he love me
But my dear grandmother !
You are alone
Where is this love of yours ?
Why is he not here ?
Is he dead ?
Did you lose him ?
How did you lose him ?
My daughter
Oh my child !
There are men who cannot love in half or quarter measures
he was one.
He frightened me so
He was always afraid I would push him away
even though I said
“I am not doing this”
He was
a strong man
But I watched as he dissolved
into mist
gone
I could no longer touch him
Did I leave him ?
Did he leave me ?
Oh my daughter
love is so fragile
so fragile
A bond that seems strong
can be shredded with a few words.
But my dear grandmother
Where is he ?
Tell me…..
My child,
look over your shoulder
He stands with me still
whispering into my ear
“I love you more than my life”
“I will never leave you”
But he is as a mist
Oh my daughter
My child
we are young but for a moment
We make decisions we think are good
Sometimes, they simply are
Sometimes, we make them without thinking
My child
you will blink and your youth will be gone.
You will be as am I,
here
on this rock
You will learn to love
And then will lose all
Have I made mistakes ?…
Old woman,
tell me your name….
My child
My great love called me many names
all I cannot repeat here
so much pain could it still cause
But Helen, Persephanie
Penelope
All these names he called me……
and others
Old woman !
These are my names !
The man I love calls me by these names
Who are you old woman ?
What are you ?
Neither the old nor the young woman knows:
Is this real ?
Is this a dream ?
Is there a chance ?
A mystery unsolved,
told in missives of blood.
From Hell he stalked
on clandestine nights,
in the hush of silent streets.
The bane of proscribed escorts,
violator of sultry prey.
With surgical mutilation,
victims splayed unhidden;
guttural lacerations
with innards to behold.
A savage aspiration,
the impetus of death.
Remembered for the carnage
and a letter to the law.
Forever—
in history he sleeps…
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Once a child
And once a girl,
Innocence still made
Its claim.
To dream
Like a child,
Like an angel,
Like a fawn.
To see the clouds
And feel the rain.
Each memory is
Like a precious fragment
Of fallen, gilded gold.
You would spread them
As little tokens
Across a fanciful map.
Each marked a place
To dream of,
Each mark a wish,
Each spot a hope.
Young you were
And never young again.
A brief reveille
Before the autumn
Before the chill.
A brief repast
Before the grace.
Do we still believe in miracles?
Do we still believe in ourselves,
that maybe we are meant
to do something than just live
an ordinary life,
and all the struggle that we have endured
was to lead us to that pivotal moment?
What if there was another 9/11?
What if there was another US Airways Flight 1549?
Would we be another Sully,
or would politics and race play a bitter card
in the division of our lives?
Would we watch the city burn
or listen to their screams die?
Would we say,
“They were not one of us?”
This was a fear that gripped me tight
as the news bled into the passing days,
but then Hurricane Harvey hit.
And despite all our differences,
all our hate,
a miracle happened.
We forgot the bullshit,
and heroes rose
Death is a bitch and a whore
comes with hat on or off,
Jewish, Christian or lover years ago called Nancy.
Death is a passport, a left behind baggage note.
My leverage sinks, I see you pass human.
These my fears, your fright, being broke, old-royalties stole Suzanne.
Now branches, extended limbs, point outward nowhere-
doors Montreal collapse tomb, dance with me,
end perfume love, a few dead flowers.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 33 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. He has been nominated 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 and 2 nominations Best of the Net 2016 and 2017. He also has 134 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762
and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089
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