Laurel Johnson's Poetry

A friend looked out at me through empty eyes today,
and now the jokes & smiles & easy talks are gone.
No more exchange of information or emotion.
No laughter, tears, no secrets from our youth,
for half of everything we talked about is lost.
My God, the shock of it!
To see that empty face devoid of life.
I knew him well, and now,
my friend no more, he lies before me lifeless
and Death has not the grace to close his eyes.

From The Grass Dance, 2001

I stare at the pictures,
lost in a trance,
focusing on long lost yesterdays,
sweet moments in time.

There's me, smiling
that sunny way I used to
when the Brownie box camera came out.
Easter Sunday, all dressed up
in finery my mother made by hand,
Shirley Temple curls gleaming
in the morning sun.
God, I was pretty then,
in my innocence and childish pride,
still waiting for the Easter Bunny.

Me again,
wearing a false white beard
and Santa hat cocked sideways,
stuffed into a padded Santa suit
and four-buckle boots,
wading through a snowdrift
on my way to playing Santa
for Aunt Lois's sorority.
I barely remember it.

And me,
a chubby toddler.
No wonder everybody loved me then,
a child so beautiful, so pure,
with spun gold hair,
smiling sweetly with my little arms
reaching to be held
by someone just off camera.

Somewhere in me, that child lives,
still pure and unafraid,
expectant of the best,
still believing love is just
a reach away.

He said, "You have a lot of your great grandma
in you. Her ways were Cherokee, alright."
Fists balled deep inside his pockets,
both legs planted firmly in defiance,
he pinned me down with snapping eyes and braced
himself, as if I might object to having Indian
in my bloodline. But, clearly, he admired me,
liked my quiet way of working, and often
said my presence made him shiver, like her spirit
had come calling with a message. And some days,
out of the blue, he'd mumble loud enough
for me to hear that modern life with all its noise
had surely stomped my soul like it had hers.
At such times I'd smile, which drove him
crazy wishing I would verify his suppositions.

He tried to measure me against her, wondered if I sought
the foggy Black Vermillion River bottoms at first light to
lose myself in swirling morning mist, asked
if I saw visions or sensed the spirit world
around me, reckoned I might crave the feel of earth and air
against my skin like she did, said she walked her farm
ground naked in the snow and rain and that he'd come
upon her once, face down spread eagle in the grass,
chanting joyfully without a stitch to cover her.
What could I say to that? I didn't know her. She died
years before my birth and no one in my family
ever talked about her. But that old man who knew her
saw a spirit in me: my love of earth and sky;
the gentle way I dealt with trouble and my silence
in the face of danger. Perhaps he recognized her spirit
dancing in my smiling eyes.

photo from SpiritScents.com

Today I sat outside in the worn
brown Adirondack chair
and watched the wind clouds
ripple through a bright blue sky.
Leaves danced a trembling jig,
turned inside out by thunderheads
growing in the south, predicting rain.
Redbirds and yellow finches grazed
together at our feeders, startling
at the sound of orioles and
blue jays swooping by, insisting
on their turn at the trough.
I smile to hear my husband cussing
in the background, something
about the latest raccoon raid on
sunflower seeds, cat food and cracked corn.
His displeasure is short-lived
when he discovers wild roses growing
thick along the ditch line by the road
and milkweed hosting butterflies.
His happy grin inspires me.
Birds and butterflies, wind and sky,
shade trees making muted music:
These are our morning pleasures.

Photo from americanmeadows.com

Backs bent against prevailing southwest winds,
they celebrate survival through each season.
Broken limbs bleed sap and heal, jagged evidence
of twisters or those hot, howling mariahs
that sucked green cornfields dry and drove
the early settlers insane. Trees bend here
in the plains. They bow and lean to the northeast
from summer after summer of hot winds that bash
and batter at their strength. Limbs on the windward
side go leafless in protest, die and fall when
winter's load of ice and snow prove more
than they can carry and yet they stand,
gnarled arms upraised in staunch determination.

Today I watched our tortured trees rejoicing in the
summer rain. Such trees will never win a prize for shapely
uniformity or growth. Their hearts must focus on survival
through harsh seasons. Yet, they shade our homes,
take hold in shelterbelts along each creek and river.
Roots plumb the earth for life and nourishment.
Leaves turn their faces joyously to rain that kisses
every surface, then trickles downward
to the ground from desiccated limbs and trunks.
On days when life has eaten me alive, I listen
to the trees. Their music soothes and bolsters,
orchestrates a healing message: bend, don't break;
sink roots deeper in dry seasons. Patiently stand.

I'm a member of Joan's team and made this lens for the competition.
Go team!!