At the last
There are certain themes
The intrest in them can be all asorbing
There are certain ideas
Of when we let our thoughts wonder, there are no limits
There are few romantisist
The feeling of love is all they crave
Where the ideas of travel
And the theams of instinct
Inter twine with passion of love
Lifting us from blood, toil, and sheaded tears
From the frosty relms
Came a hand
Made of ice
Its resting spot
Held on the crown of my forhead
Halting the activities
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poem by Howard Johnson
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The rain
Three in the morning
Of the next day
Sleep gave way
To the sounds of rain
The rain makes many sounds
Outside my window
The rained echoed
As it bounced off
The metal down spout
It makes an empty hollow sound
Sweetly permeating in my room
Reminding me of you
The first time we met
My dear lady
We were caught
In a warm down pour
Of the rain
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Royal place
Painted fresh
Red and white
With even little squares
To Give a rich look
The look of royality
A table cloth
Laid out for a Queen.
Evenly placed on the ground..
A royal place
A splended place
For my knee to rest
Am I worthy
Comming before the Queen.
There on the cloth
Its settings
The plate
The cup
The numbers were in two
Off to the side a deep green
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poem by Howard Johnson
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The Wind
A poem written for me :)
The wind is calling, Her breath cold and clear.
She is trying to tell me she is near.
To the desert she calls in soft haunting ways
Mother Nature is waiting so patient and true
The desert she calls out, Has so much to offer you.
The sunsets of yellows, oranges and reds
Dance across the sky up over head.
The is an energy so pure and serine
Only your soul alone in the desert will see.
An eye of an artist, or stroke of a pen
Will be able to capture her to the end
The wind is calling so soft and so true
The desert she whispers will be waiting for you.
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Artist
Through the window
All that could be seen
Is in obsucerity
Her hand parting away the mist
Strongly drivin
By wishful fulfilment
In the pursuit of color perfection
Her creative mind never rest
In expressive creativity
In its best
Perement memories
Are being made
Some people wonder
Some people ask
What motivates her
To the task
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poem by Howard Johnson
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The Last pedal
The silence of the day
Allowed me
To gather up some simple thoughts
In the garden,
Next to a simple cottage
Over grown by Ivy
Surrounds all four walls
Grew the summer time rose
I miss getting its sweet fragrance.
Her beauty now devastated.
As The last pedal hit the selfish ground
Painful sight of the barin stem
Leaving only the piercing points of its thorns
Touching her now makes deep wounds
I missed having the summertime rose
Soft and fragrant.
Memories I have
Will carry me
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Funeral end for my friend
I am standing at your funeral
Ready to say good bye
I am standing here
Ready to cry
Memories for me to recall
Of my first ball
Climbing tall trees
Skined up knees
Swinging High
Touching the sky
When I returned
Your arms were there
Wraping me
With warmth comfort and care.
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Apple Tree
Standing where
The grass and the
Cement meet
In what could be called
A walking path
Looking towards
An old apple orchard
Its blossoms tenderly in bloom
Filled with pinks, white and red
Her gypsy blood stirs
She is a vagabond
By her own name
So much sweetness to be drunk
From the small pedals
Pink, White and Red,
Swaying through the sunny hours
Meeting her own needs.
By dunking in her little head.
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Paper Has Beauty
Paper is beauty
If you look with
Your heart
Your mind
Writings mingling
Letters and lines
Grinding pencils
To faceless parchment
Allowing yourself
Your soul
Your expressions
Come and go
Or anything for your eyes
Placed on a page
Mystery, riddle, Puzzle
And paint
Many Methods
Use to guide
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poem by Howard Johnson
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Tears
Lonely and in the dark of night,
Void of comfort, security and full of fright,
I carry my weight of loss and wanting you.
With open wounds undressed and exposed to view.
With warmth and passion,
I turn to you.
Looking for trust and compassion,
My obscure river of feelings
Are there to become known.
In its tide of affluence...
Will you wade or swim
Or wait for it to reciede
Enter in, for I need.
Although wanting to be concerned for your.....
Safety,
In silence,
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poem by Howard Johnson
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