Category: POEMS (Page 18 of 30)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Painters #680

September 29, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Once all of our house guests leave next weekend, we’ll be dealing with interior painting. All of the ceilings in our condo will be changed from a shade of tan to white, allowing more light to reflect within each room. Most of the walls will also be changed from tan to Butterball or Pound Cake, although the final decision on these two shades of yellow has not been made. Small sections of our entry wall have been painted and samples posted to allow comparison. As soon as the Portland rains start to fall, our painter will shift from outdoor work to our indoor project. I’m sure it will take several weeks, and may not be done until Christmas.

As we prepare for this project, we’ve already begun the process of packing up any breakable items. This has included my wife’s extensive Limoges Box collection and crystal glassware. They have all been carefully bubble-wrapped and stored in out-of-the-way places. Our Halloween decorations will not be coming out of their boxes, including our dancing Snoopy, glass pumpkins, and Holiday-themed porcelain figurines.

It will be the first time that I can remember when Limoges Boxes haven’t dominated our shelves. It’s been a gift tradition for me since we met nearly 20 years ago. Each month I try to present a custom box that has a meaningful romantic tie to our travel adventures, events we’ve gone to, and holiday memories. Within each box, I enclose a special poem to commemorate its individual importance as part of her collection.

I could not bear the thought of all those empty shelves during this painting process, so I bought her a “Spider” box to celebrate Halloween. It contains this short poem:

Spider

With painting plans,
They’re packed away.
Every Limoges,
Out of the way.

Crystal Glass,
Removed from cabinets.
All stored that’s precious,
Except for our pets.

White ceilings,
Buttery walls.
Hoping nothing,
Breaks or falls.

Another Halloween,
Is happening soon.
And Snoopy won’t,
Play his tune.

Ghost-like tarps,
Will hang instead.
While Thanksgiving,
Looms ahead.

The very horror,
Of a porcelain-free holiday.
Made me exclaim
There’s just no way!

So I bought yet another,
To simply assure.
That such an atrocity,
Would never occur!

It’s an itsy-bitsy,
Eight-legged might.
It’s Biggest strength,
Is it won’t bite.

This one will stand,
While the others hide.
Until the paint,
Has finally dried.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Men’s Room #677

September 27, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Some might consider shopping to be part of a woman’s DNA. Others might consider this assumption to be sexist. All I know, that as a man, it’s definitely not part of mine. In fact, I have an immediate physical reaction every time I enter a store. Here’s another example of a poem in the dubious category of “In Questionable Bad Taste,” that might be considered the body function sequel to “Art Makes Me Fart”(Post #676.) You be the judge:

Men’s Room

A phenomenon occurs,
When I try to shop.
A paralyzing urge,
That just won’t stop.

It happens every time,
So something’s wrong.
As I step in any store,
It’s like I don’t belong.

Before I get my cart,
I find the Men’s Room sign.
Or ask for the key,
In the check-out line.

If I try to resist,
My bladder will insist.
It’s the first thing,
On my shopping list.

It could be,
An allergic reaction.
Since I have to hurry,
Take immediate action.

My output valve,
Must be emptied.
Before I can fulfill,
Any purchase need.

Before I even start,
It’s pre-buyer’s remorse.
The rest room calls,
And nature takes its course.

It’s a sense of panic,
As I walk in the door.
A cruel joke,
I can’t ignore.

And just when I think,
It’s safe to begin.
I often need
To Go again.

It must be,
Some kind of disease.
Shopping for me,
Is spelled with two pees.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Art Makes Me Fart #676

September 27, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I would have to put this poetic entry in the category of “In Questionable Bad Taste,” as I attempt to pay a back-handed compliment to the world of Art. About 6 months ago, my wife and I were in Venice at an Art Museum, and I felt a certain sense of relaxation while enjoying the exquisite pieces of creativity that surrounded us. It’s probably not a normal reaction to what many believe deserves a sophisticated critique. Here’s mine:

Art Makes Me Fart

If I need to relax,
A museum is smart.
I can feel the relief,
‘Cause Art makes me fart.

Take it from me,
When I need to unload.
Sometimes I feel,
Like I just might explode.

Sometimes they’re sneaky,
Fore-warnings not there.
Beware of these moments,
Those around you will care.

A stroll through a gallery,
Can produce a big sigh.
Always try to make sure,
There’s a rest room nearby.

Or go off by yourself,
You don’t want to be rude.
When a painting inspires,
And you need to exude.

Analyzing a sculpture,
Can cause a release.
And this is why art,
Gives me pure peace

If it indeed moves you,
Let it silently Pass.
Find an Exit nearby,
Show you’ve got class.

It’s a natural reaction,
As Art makes an Impression.
If you just keep moving,
There’s no need for confession.

Your favorite artist,
Might be van Gogh.
Practice restraint,
Don’t Just let go.

It might be music,
That you grow to savor.
Whatever form of art,
You personally favor.

Wait till you hear,
The Fat Lady Sing.
Before you decide,
To toot that thing.

Gauguin gives me gas,
Picasso makes me purr.
I create some diversion,
When the urge does occur.

You never want to hear,
“What’s that smell?”
So move quickly away,
Once you expel.

Since I’m really skilled,
At defusing a fart.
Can misdirection,
Be considered an art?

Old Sport Shorts: Crunch Time #668

September 20, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I got started on my run about five miles minutes earlier this morning, nearly beating the school bus up the hill to its pick-up spot near the two-mile mark. Thoughts were on getting packed and driving to the airport for our 11:10 a.m. flight to Chicago’s O’Hare. We would be there in time for dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab, one of my wife’s favorites. She has business meetings tomorrow while I do my retirement thing.

It’s Crunch Time, with only ten games left in the season! The Cubs are off today prior to the start of the Crosstown Showdown at White Sox Park on Friday. It’s hard to refer to it as Guaranteed Rate Field, since that doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. I was just getting used to calling it Cellular One, despite so many childhood memories of Comiskey Park. I understand the value of sponsorship in today’s world of sports, so I tolerate the unromantic, commercial names we call our venues. I will just be glad to be there, whatever it’s called?, on Saturday night as the Cubs hope to once again reduce their Playoff Magic Number (currently at 8) and hold-off the hungry Milwaukee Brewers. Crunch!

It was a rare night on Monday when both the Cubs and Bears won their respective games. The White Sox did not play, so none of my Chicago teams were losers- a miracle! Watching the masterful defense “Bear Down” was particularly emotional, reminiscent of the glory years of the mid 1980’s. Equally satisfying is the Cub’s quest for their historic fourth consecutive playoff appearance. They’ve managed a winning September record, but the offense is sputtering and the pitching painfully-patched in piece-meal. I have reduced expectations for the post-season, with comparably much less hope for the Bears. College basketball will start in less than a month, as both of these Windy City favorites slowly fade into typical, late-season obscurity, and much-improved I.U basketball begins to take preference. It’s the sports cycle that I seem to be stuck in every year thanks to my Northern Indiana upbringings.

The good thing about sports is that for every loss somebody else wins. While we’re flying the “W,” hoisting the hardware, and hugging total strangers, the opponent is disheartened, disappointed, and ultimately disgusted by our poor sportsmanship. To make matters even more miserable, they, may have even lost a “friendly” wager, personal credibility, or a major bet. Regardless, it’s a difficult moment that may reverse itself in the future – or even next year. Remember to win graciously and lose with visions of that next win. Better yet – never bet. As a fan, I can’t control the outcome, just the ugly emotions that often come out. I just hope that the very last game I watch is a big victory that I can enjoy throughout eternity. That would be the way to go!

I won’t be disappointed if the Cubs win the World Series, the Bears win the Super Bowl, and the Hoosiers win the NCAA Tournament. Each has now happened in my lifetime, as well as a White Sox World Championship. I’ve even gotten two out of three in the same year. I’ve been blessed with several good years, and cursed with many more bad ones. What will the end of this year bring? It’s Crunch Time!

Crunch Time

It’s that time,
The last chance.
Your final move,
To make the dance.

It’s everything,
You’ve waited for.
You couldn’t ask,
For anything more.

You’ve Fantasized,
And dreamed it.
How much more real,
Can it possibly get?

Within your reach,
In front of you.
What to do?
It’s up to you.

Grab the ring,
And hold on tight.
Keep it close,
With all your might.

Enjoy the spotlight,
It’s your day.
Don’t let anything,
Get in your way.

Miracle maker,
Beating all odds.
Defying defeat,
Gift of the Gods

Hitting the Walk-off,
Or Last second shot.
Giving everything,
That you’ve got.

Heisman recipient,
And The MVP.
Impact each moment
With all you can be.

What makes a winner?
Refusing to lose.
Highlight heroics,
Front page news.

Everyone’s All-Star,
Here’s the latest.
In lifetime achievement,
One of the Greatest.

Hall of Fame moment,
Tell Cooperstown.
You’re Ranked #1,
Put on the Crown.

It’s Crunch Time,
So go for it all.
When it’s on the line,
You’ll get the ball.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Step Two #666

September 17, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I suppose I should have written something today with a “devilish twist,” considering that this is Post #666. As I was running this morning, I once again was focused on each step along my route. As my mind gets bored, I tend to count steps – forwards and backwards – knowing that each of my steps is about a yard long anymore, so a mile is about 1760 steps. I went over all this math in Post #594, as I tried to poetically capture the art of distraction from a difficult run. As a result, I wrote “If Somehow I Could,”and followed-up in Post #590 that also included a poem cleverly titled “Steps.” Here is “Step Two:”

Step Two

From that first step,
We’re on our own.
These steps get bigger,
As we’ve grown.

Each step forward,
Is one step less.
How many more?
One can only guess?

The number of steps,
Determine how far.
The longer the step,
The less steps there are.

Keep on steppin,’
To the finish line.
Step this way,
But don’t step on mine.

Watch your Step,
Cherish each day.
Your last step,
Is but a step away.

johnstonwrites.com

Retirement is not without Hassles: Hometown Honey #664

September 16, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I ran alone this morning on a day reserved for dog activities. There were heavy rains most of the night and my wife is fighting a stress-related cold, so she and the schnauzers got a little extra cuddling time. When I left, Tally was getting a “tummy attack” and Tinker was frantically barking with jealous rage. I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. Next weekend, I’ll be running through the streets of Chicago in anticipation of our drive through Indiana.

Last night, we went to see “The Wife,” a Glenn Close bid for an Academy Award. The movie is all about writing, and the most memorable quote was “Writers must write.” I feel that same inspiration every time I sit down at the computer and stare at a blank page. I often have no idea how to fill it, but I start to punch keys, hoping that in the end it makes sense. Many times I start by recounting my activities, like a diary, aspiring to evolve into something more substantial. Retirement has given me the time to write what I want, when I want, and I consider that to be a privilege. There are no demands or deadlines on my work other than my personal goal of posting something daily.

I’m reading Rocket Men by Robert Kurson, envious that I’ve never gotten any of my writing published. It’s the tale of Apollo 8, led by fellow-Hoosier Frank Borman. I was glad to see that Gary, Indiana is known for more than just Michael Jackson. Borman’s bravery made it possible to walk on the moon, while Jackson perfected the moonwalk. We’ll pass through there on the Indiana Toll Road about this time next Sunday. As the lyrics from the The Music Man proudly proclaim, “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, not Louisiana, Paris, France, or Rome but… Gary, Indiana… my home sweet home.” My home sweet home is actually about 100 miles east of Gary, and was never made famous by a song, musician, or astronaut. It is, however, “The RV Capital of the World,” and home of Speedy Alka-Seltzer. Also, the Music Man wouldn’t have been a musical without the brass band instruments that are manufactured in the city of Elkhart.

Every time I would go to a baseball game in Chicago as a kid, we would pass through Gary. The first impression was always billowing smoke coming from the nearby Steel Mills. You could smell Gary before you could see it, so it’s no wonder that both Frank Borman and Michael Jackson got out of town as soon as possible. “Radio-Active Man” was probably more appropriate than The Music Man, considering the eerie glow of the surrounding skies. However, people who lived there saw a certain beauty in the colorful pollutants that spewed from the smokestacks, especially at sunset. It only goes to prove that regardless of where you grew up, there’s a certain pride of association. Don’t make fun of my hometown!

We’ve all had a “Hometown Honey” or have found our Hometown food to be the best in the world. You always have to have something “sweet” to make it worth going back. I’ve always found that visiting was much better than actually living there. To this day, I crave Elkhart’s own Volcano Pizza, my Hoosier Hometown Honey, that was always a sure incentive. With this low-carb diet that we’ve recently been sticking-to, I hadn’t had pizza for months until just the other night (and that was without the crust), so it’s no wonder that I’m thinking about Volcano this morning. I won’t be able to get “home” on next week’s trip, but we will stay the night in my wife’s hometown, about an hour southeast of Gary. My wife’s hometown pizza favorite is Nubiano’s, with Bruno’s just down the road. Speaking of favorite stops, as we pass into Indiana, we’ll drive by the Indiana Welcome Center in Hammond, Indiana (where the story takes place) that features a major Christmas Story display and the infamous flagpole out front with Flick’s tongue stuck to its frozen surface. I should be captured in perpetuity like Flick, with my tongue glued to my hometown honey, a Volcano Pizza.

Hometown Honey

I’ve got to get back,
To my Hometown Honey.
Got to “hop” to it,
Make like a bunny.

I left her behind,
But want her back.
I think about her,
As I start to pack.

So close by,
Yet, a special find.
She’s all mine,
One-of-a-kind.

It is a love story,
But not what you think.
It’s not about a girl,
I say with a wink.

My Italian honey,
Is tasty not sweet.
Time to beat feet,
Chao – Let’s eat.

Sausage and Cheese,
She’s so fine.
Hometown Pizza,
Preferred way to dine.

She’s a perfect slice,
A cut above.
As you can see,
I’ve fallen in love.

Tempting Toppings
A Golden crust.
A bite of her,
Is what I lust.

Just out of the oven,
Heavenly smell.
Hot and delicious,
I’m under her spell.

I’ve searched the world,
There’s nothing like her.
The dough of my dreams,
Is my hometown lure.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Noises in the Night #649

September 1, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Although I like to keep most of my poems family-friendly, I occasionally my style drifts-off into a dark place, especially as I talk about uncomfortable subjects around toilet humor. My poor wife must have had a miserable night of sleep last night: fortunately it wasn’t a work night. I had eaten a couple of bowls of chili the night before and went to the track yesterday for beer and polish sausage. Also, we went to Outback for dinner where I had baby-back ribs and two martinis – extra dirty, extra dry, extra olives. I must have an iron stomach, but apparently the gas was unbearable, even though I slept fine. Every once in a while, I’ll find my wife on the couch in the morning, and I know I’m in trouble. In this case, there was some initial snoring, but the gas was the biggest reason she evacuated the bedroom.

I have a category of poetry called “In Questionable Bad Taste.” I would definitely put this apology to my wife in that section of my catalog of poems, although I doubt that she will be impressed or proud of my work:

Noises in the Night

When your bedroom,
Becomes a barnyard.
Getting any rest,
Has to be hard.

You moved to the couch,
While I kept on dreaming.
I’d hate to know what,
You might have been scheming?

When I go to sleep,
Noises must come out.
I might as well,
Just lay there and shout.

It keeps you awake,
While I’m out cold.
I know that it must,
Be getting quite old.

They’re often unpleasant,
And come out both ends.
Sexy and considerate,
Isn’t the message it sends.

It can’t be me,
I’m too damn sweet.
I’m sorry just in case,
And hope never to repeat

What comes out,
Once went in.
That guy in your bed,
Must be my evil twin.

I need to eat flowers,
And drink perfume.
Chili and beer,
Are the problem I fear.

Snores like boars,
And the gas I pass.
May soon get me kicked,
Out of bed on my ass.

Creature Features: Tummy Attack #648

September 1, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

My wife came into our bedroom this morning and our dog Tally was on her back on top of our bed, begging for attention. She suggested that I write something about it, implying that perhaps I spend too much time focused on our other dog Tinker, “The Poopingest Pup on the Planet.” Although both schnauzers are adopted, Tally has only been around half as long, so there will come a time when she’ll be all I’ll have to write these Creature Features about. Most days, Tally lays around the house like I don’t exist, just waiting for my wife to come home from work. When she hears the garage door go up in the evening, she springs into action. She loves the weekends and starts to get excited when my wife doesn’t get dressed for work, and she knows it’s time for a long walk; what we now call “Schnauzerthons” since princess Tinker has a carriage to ride in and I often push it while running.

One of Tally’s endearing habits, that is very much like a cat, is asking for her tummy to be rubbed. She now calls her “Tummy Attack Tally,” and this is my poetic tribute to her:

Tummy Attack

For undivided attention,
She gives you a poke.
You can start,
With a gentle stroke.

Her ears perk up,
Her tail begins to wag.
There’s the subtle rattle,
Of her dog tag.

She growls to be noticed,
And starts to stretch.
She definitely not asking,
For something to fetch

She lays on the floor,
Her paws in the air.
Her stomach exposed.
As if to dare.

A puppy moan,
Her eyes open a crack.
She’s asking for,
Your hands to attack.

“Scratch me right there,”
She’d say if she could.
“A little bit lower,”
“That feels good.”

Rub it in circles,
Tickle my fur.
Some playful roughness,
She’ll gladly endure.

“Itch my soft belly,”
“My tongue can’t reach there.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,”
“To be covered in hair.”

It’s an invitation,
Not an invasion.
It doesn’t even need,
A special occasion.

Her eyes filled with need,
She’s posed on her back.
Tally just loves,
A Tummy attack.

Creature Features: The Mooch #646

August 30, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I recently saw a You Tube video of a little dog that would stare longingly at its owner any time he went to put food in his mouth. The dog was there every time he went to the refrigerator or sat down at the table to eat. It reminded me of our Schnauzer/Poodle mix with bat-like ears, Tinker. She is always hungry and follows me wherever I go during the day, looking for scraps. Her dog bowl is always empty, and then she moves on to Tally’s food. I have not found anything that she won’t eat, and because she stalks me whenever I try to eat something, I’ve resorted to calling her “The Mooch.” She’s already earned the reputation as “The Poopingest Pup on the Planet,” and being a mooch is the reason why. Here’s another poetic tribute to our dog whose bottomless stomach is really nothing more than a doggy bag.

The Mooch

Out of nowhere,
She appears.
At first you think,
“She’s all ears.”

She hears you unwrap,
And open food.
She’s a starving dog,
With an attitude.

Quickly at your side
Every time you cook.
Those needy eyes,
Convey “the look.”

Open the fridge,
And here she comes.
You’ve seen less greed,
From hungry bums.

A piece of meat,
Falls off your lap.
She doesn’t miss
A single scrap.

With every bite,
As I recall.
Around the corner,
Her hairy eyeball.

No need to look,
As you eat.
Chances are,
She’s at your feet.

Her persistence,
Will never stop,
Just waiting for,
A crumb to drop.

A land shark,
Without a dorsal.
Just anticipating,
The next morsel.

You sense her presence.
With each mouthful.
Then see her staring,
At an empty Bowl.

She licks her lips,
As you go to dine.
You know she’s thinking,
“That should be mine.”

The tongue comes out,
The tail starts to wag.
When we come home,
With a paper bag.

Yes we love,
Our furry pooch.
But as we munch,
She’s a Mooch.

What happens later,
There’s little doubt.
‘Cause what goes in,
Must come out.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Texas Suits Me #644

August 30, 2018 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s been over four years now since we moved from Austin to Portland. Keep (insert city name) Weird! The cities have similar liberal politics, food trucks, and great restaurants, but the weather is vastly different. I’m beginning to see the days grow shorter here in Oregon, as sunlight no longer greets my 6 a.m wake-up call. In a few months, a seemingly endless drizzle will begin with only spotty sun breaks. Next week, we head back to Austin for a wedding, where I’ll get an opportunity to see a few old friends.

I had a tough start in Austin after abruptly losing my leadership role back in Illinois. My wife took a sales management position with our former company and moved us to Texas. I had a fairly generous severance package, so I wasn’t in a big hurry to find a new career path, and spent some time writing by the pool at our temporary apartment complex. I had a few wounds to lick and the Lonestar State sunshine helped the healing process. It was only after I became a popular poolside fixture that my wife encouraged me to find a job…any job. It was a big step down, but I found work selling men’s suits in a town that preferred not to wear them. This is where I met my two best friends in Austin, who we’ll be meeting for a reunion dinner in seven days.

One of these friends will be joining me in retirement in the next six months, while the youngest of our trio now owns a men’s clothing store of his own. He was the only one of us that was really serious about the clothing business. The name of his business is “Where Men Shop,” the same as the fictional store we were writing a humorous Broadway musical about in our down-time together waiting for that next customer or “up.” If you’ve ever worked in the retail business, it’s a thankless job of being on your feet all day and trying to maintain a smile when nearly everyone you deal with is impossible. You simply bite your tongue so you don’t say these words:

Just Get Out

Just Get OUT!
We stand all day,
We’re in retail sales,
When our feet hurt,
Our patience fails.

Service is key,
We aim to please.
Not to mention,
Commission fees.

We wait all day,
For you to arrive.
You always show up,
When we close in five.