Ceci n'est pas une poem

My year when I decided to write a poem a day even though I am not a poet and know nothing about poetry.

[elizjjwoldtoo]

That is every poem I have ever written.  I might keep this up for awhile in hopes that I will feel another poem some day and have something else to post.

Thank you all so much for reading my poems! You have no idea how much it means to me that you graciously used your time to read the things I wrote!

Thanks to everyone I know who read my work and everyone I don’t know - thanks for being the other half of this writing process for me. It makes me so happy that you did not hate my work.

Thank you:

@juansendizon

@sarahmariepardy

@leaveyouapage

@flawlessdecay

@hemingway-never-did-this

@amadeuswolfe

@theboywithoabs

@ishanijasmin

@theadventureto-be

@korilee

@stevenluce

@silver-afternoons

@pearson-poetry

@mael-strm

@xoxohomeless

@evergreenwords

@weright

@sedehaven

@ella-te

@blazersparadise

@mikeliebo

@stoneravenue

@butakowski

@sequenceshepard

@karatclothing

@jasonlowder

@slowlyelectronicface

@2am-spilledink

@twice-a-poet

@moirose

@moved-to-new-blog-dot-com-lol

@johnnyscarlotti

@quietplaces

@catchaglimpseofalleble

@tristan29photography

@topisketch

@xaeious

@idoglover2018

@jookbx

@sonderthoughts92

@ricepotmina

@leafsea

@ruben-gabriel

@thegriffinsinkpot

@camwarva

@smakka--bagms

@designandarchitectureclub

@transparent-souls

@silver-afternoons

@music-makes-you-alive

@everything-is-meaninglesss

@nothingwithoutwords

@littlebirdythings

@mischiefmaddy

@music-makes-wonders

@seventsm

@5-1-m-0-n-3

@lovelydisarray

@macludupte1972

@howardblackburn

@mr-yesbody

@xx-aalongreenpoetry-xx

@rarasworldbro

@hoipenhockzip1978

@akuanocturnal

@rinjirenee

@short-weird-stories

@sfdreamweaver

@barefootrapunzel

@funnilyrelatable

@monlasucva1972

@cossettgarcia

@sa6ed

@deadsensescompany

@solopianomusic

@the-o6

@shiningrhialyn-saionji

@thegoblincave

@hebefijtman

@helloppl22

@apoemwrittenforyou

@the-adventures-of-sean

@litadoolan

@goitisribus1988

@kellgeorge

@abandonedfarm

@nomoreza1983

@candy-eyes

@darkestmusic

@theradiowoman

@bonewrites

@golfeventplanning

@clonesofclones

@baywrites

@mintymaiden

@housewiththereddoor

@anarkyandmadness

@lifeinsoftfocus

@bestcommas

@deshazo-louann1mih479

@etherealpromises

@heartbeatingwings

@thecommissionshow

@thefias-co

@jlimrosenberg

@visionsofjoanna

@jaypiercewriting

@tisnawahyu

@senrimaco

@attilamora

@lovely-disaster03

@music-means-life

@riotousavocado

@spillthatink

@megdegrant

@paintlikeapoet

@manicsmokebomb

@industrialmusicblog

@calderapoetry

@the-journalofmylife-blog

@thequaliaproject

@tealangel555

@eldiab

@grungeloveandotherthings

@abrighterspark

@lovedoggiestyle

@ahoychrispineda

@ultratraveltheworld

@ineedahospitalforsouls

@iamflyingintomyself

@izlabseesu

@supernovanity

@foundyourpoetry

@milknosugar-youtube

@autumnzipper

@organizedroyale

@marismoods

@chenharland

@riggwelterpress

@madworlddiary

@mikefrawley

@ambroseharte

@ellenya

@arcanity

@emmarlon

@skyeries

@itsokaytodreamincolor

@rulatte

@dapherzini

@artwriting

@blackbirdpoetess

@leemartenspoetry

@marcelmajor

@music-is-awesomeness

@bumbleblossoms

@re-bumbleblossoms

@alex-a-roman

@burningdisconnect

@prairiebones

@giulswrites

@collection-of-star-dust

@passionate-politico

@gloomypoetry

@mityarostrokovich

@thebeastartsupply

@catherinestephens

@lucky-clover-cannot-hear-you

@ollieordonez

@allor7

@egrizzlycave

@odetobeesx

@cutsoff-life

@ember-gleams-music

@arushi1296

@naomitatemaghen

@shipshapewithsliders

@modellifestuff

@dhritwritesforherentirety

@feathertostonepoet

@calliahna

@teacup13

@i-am-poetrying

@caffeinatedanxietywordvomit

@hiddenlightundertheshadows

@unaffiliated-lover

@freefirelover

@jamesmarch87

@grace-naomi

@shamikmishra

@acyrus

@kingjacktorrance

@theaslan17

@kitrinnax

@authortravisliebert

@galaxy-of-me

@enslavedmind

@lovecatgirlposts

@savage-words

@gracebabcockwrites

@sunshine-machinery

@neverthesame

@wordsbydominic

@thisproselady

@kenkanned

@infinitely-poetic

@iammorethanaflower

@michaelwarming

@astronaut23-me

@stephenstilwell

@dreamcatcher-777

@robertjw4688

@oneofthesmall

@poemsbyc

@morewordsthansense

@kylebrowning

@xfactor5195

@matthewconsole

@artwhoreo

@ashleeraewrites

@its-deafening-silence

@thebryanrios

@uhmpoet

@nothingwithoutwords

@adamantseal

@rosesandfires

@impleftreblogs

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          8-5-11

I am content to die in a field of

Sunflowers

to the chorus of crow’s wings

beating as they scatter in fright.

Death momentarily fragmenting

their murder.

Perhaps a lone black feather will

float down,

Dancing in the breeze my soul

stirs up

as it makes its escape.

Far better that

than to melt away in my

yellow room.

Far better that

than to hear only one side of the the symphony,

the low notes barely hinting

at what the high notes

might have been.

I will open my window on some

starry night

and fly away on the midnight wind

like some haunted night bird

following its instinct to roam.

I will not leave a candle

burning

for I will have no plans of

return.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          7-12-11

The breeze through the midnight window

brings the faraway feeling

A distant dog barks a sharp tattoo

Bark,   Bark,   rest,rest,rest,rest,

Bark,   Bark,   rest,rest,rest,rest,

Chained on concrete

riddled with cracks

sprouting thirsty weeds

inside a high metal fence.

Car parts

and dead appliances

moon bathing in uneven heaps.

A single bright blue-ish light

on a tall pole

makes a stage set piece

of the leaning building,

rusting piles and

dog.

Bark,   Bark,   rest,rest,rest,rest,

Bark,   Bark,   rest,rest,rest,rest,

The cadence never varying

by a second.

We are the only 2 people

left alive in the world.

The metronome dog

and I.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold 

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          3-15-11

If I sit very still and

concentrate on not concentrating

I can sometimes catch a

whiff of the fragrance of

my childhood.

If I hold out my hand

it will light on my open palm,

beating wings that are so fragile they don’t disturb the air.

On feet so light and tiny they

can’t be felt.

I have to keep my eyes

open for it,

anticipating its arrival.

And when it comes it is

about the smell of earth

and sweet grass and

sun beating down on crumbling bricks

and making my skin smell salty.

It is about the cool dark

interior of a barn

with a dusty floor and a

potter’s wheel and the

perfume of wet clay.

It is about the taste

of clover allowed to grow

alongside the grass,

never perfectly clipped,

It is about scruffy dogs

and horse manure

and baby goats butting their tiny heads against me.

Like the intoxicating scent

of rain on the sidewalk I want to drink it in,

absorb its promise.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          Ivory          5-7-11

Ivory is a flock of birds

dipping and swaying as

they swirl through

the dusk, turning as one

to flash and shimmer

in another direction.

A school of fish so fluid

they are a drop of India ink

in a glass of white wine.

Ivory is a spot of Jackson Pollock

in a Piet Mondrian world.

Ivory is a cumulus cloud,

layer crouched on layer

forming a salt cliff in the air,

now a walled city, now the Mona Lisa,

now with storm front potential holding itself in,

dazzling white - the possibilities shifting

and forming before your eyes.

Ivory is the unexpected fragrance

of lilac in a concrete city block,

the flash of rain that turns

the utility of cement sidewalks

into the scent of childhood,

of promise,

of a future as yet untapped.

Ivory is a vermilion scarf

flapping on a clothesline

of stark white sheets and denim trousers.

Ivory is sharp and soft at the same time.

She is vast and broad and filled with sunlight,

She is hidden and shadowy, but never

smoke and mirrors.

She is Ivory.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem       Bird          4-19-11

I awoke at 5:20 am to birdsong

It was the first night

of the season

that I left my window open.

Just a little.

Because it was raining

when I went to bed.

It was still fully dark.

The bird was singing so

earnestly

almost relentlessly.

It didn’t sound as much

joyous

as urgent.

And then it stopped.

No slowing down.

No final bow.

No building to a climax.

Just singing and then

abruptly not.

Different birds were

singing different songs

farther off,

but they were not

my bird.

I missed him the instant

he stopped.

The moment I knew the

interval of silence was

too long

and he would not begin

another refrain.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem       Flautina           10-5-10

Why do I not recognize

that it is autumn by

the falling leaves?

Why do I wonder what’s

causing them to fall,

and worry that I should

do something to change it,

to stop it,

to make sure

it doesn’t happen again?

How is it possible that I

don’t see it for what it is;

don’t recognize that

this has happened to me

45 times before?

Why do I schedule apple picking

in January?

How can I be unaware

that this won’t work?

And just because you

once painted a small

oil of a granny smith

how does that translate

that you will want to

pluck down the fruit

with your own hands?

When will I see that

falling leaves bring snow flakes

in their wake

and I can’t will it to be otherwise?

What keeps me raking

and shoveling against

the onslaught

is that in my head

I’m sitting in the sun by myself.

Because I know, but regret,

that I don’t have the skills

to turn frozen apples into

apple pie.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem         Job Interview    8-1-10

All applicants place your

hearts on the table,

We regret that we cannot return them.

All applicants please read

your history critically

and be honest with yourselves.

All applicants must be

prepared to regret most

of what you say and do,

so

please open your diaries,

please turn them in for inspection.

We will notify those who are disqualified at this stage.

All applicants must understand

that you will fail at this job

in all the ways that

bother you most,

however

we must be clear that we are not liable for any

emotional damages sustained during your

employment with us.

Please note that we will not hold you responsible

for anything that occurs after your death

(But let’s be real - we’ll all blame you for everything

from here on out.)

Good Luck, Applicants!

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem         3 beers and a glass of wine     8-1-10

This cannot cure your woes

This cannot make you 25 again

This cannot erase your

mistakes

your missteps

your confusion.

But, crazily, it can make

you stop your reverie

and watch

Masterpiece Mystery

with your daughter on a Sunday night

because its the only thing left that you share.

Gone is reading aloud.

Gone is her coming into your bed at night after a bad dream.

Gone is your contentment that “Parent” is your name.

But Masterpiece is 1.5 hours of shared space,time & emotion.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem    #7     8-1-10

By the time you know a

thing or two

the sun is behind the

earth

and the ground shadows

your opportunities.

Stability trumps luminescence.

But you never know it til

the pumpkin blossoms

have all turned to fruit

and All Hallows Eve knocks

on your door for free

candy.

Your panic can’t serve

you now.

You can’t walk to the

filling station with a

red plastic can in

your hand.

It’s like the grilled cheese

you were making is charred

because you lost track

of time and the only

saving grace is that

the dog will eat it

It won’t go to waste.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          8/28/2009

Sometimes I’m back in that old diner ‘round midnight.

I only been there once,

eating chili cheese fries like to kill you before the paper bowl is empty.

Carla and I are laughing ‘til our stomach’s ached,

but I can’t remember now one funny thing we talked about at all.

Not one.

Guess everything seemed funny just then, but not the kind of thing that stayed with you.

One lady behind the counter, elbows on Formica, hairnet covering half her head.

She mostly watched the tiny t.v.,

but she was friendly enough.

Missin’ teeth though.

Most of ‘em.

2 drag queens walked in around 2:00 am.

They were beautiful.

It took me a good 10 minutes to see they were men.

Lovely. lovely.

And not too cheap looking.

But too tall really, especially with the heals.

And I’m six feet tall.

And that is one thing I remember now.

Later, we laughed all the way up the elevator to our room

because they looked prettier than we did.

Just two moms thinking we fit right in on Bourbon Street.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          8/13/2009

Cockroach on the Bus

How did you get here?

You can’t hop up the stairs.

In someone’s bag?

That doesn’t bear thinking about - I don’t want a cock roach in MY bag.

You seem like you want to get off at the next stop.

Truly.

I push my sunglasses up onto my head.

Lean forward.

Squint at you to be sure.

Yep. Cockroach.

The man across the aisle slides his eyes over.

What is she doing?

He doesn’t move a muscle.

Slides his eyes downward to look where I’m looking.

My stop.

As soon as the doors are open you dash along the edge of the aisle.

I watch.

Hesitate.

I want to see what happens next.

How will you navigate the stairs?

The drop to the street?

But I have to move on.

“Thank you,” I say to the driver and step off the bus.

A gust of wind blows my wrap around skirt all the way open at the tie.

I grab it,

noting only one man in plaid shorts who watches me while he talks on his cell phone, a smile on his lips.

The bus doors close.

It moves on.

I don’t remember to wonder about the roach until I am sitting on a bench as far away from plaid shorts as I can get.

I hope no-one’s waiting at home keeping your cockroach dinner waiting.

Or maybe you made the leap.

I hope so.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem          3/10/2009

Waiting at Both Ends

I watch the man

watching.

I wait. He waits.

What For?

I look at my partner - still on the phone,

I shift my weight. I look at the man.

He still waits. Sips a drink from a can. Smokes a cigarette.

I wait. He waits.

He looks up the street.

I cross the street.

I take a picture down the steep hill. Still I can hear my partner on the phone.

I take a picture of the flowers outside the corner market.

I cross back.

There’s the man.

He looks down the street.

He waits. I’m sure of it. What for?

I’m hungry. I look at my partner - I think it’s his father. It could be awhile.

I smell pizza.

I want to go into the restaurant, but I wait.

The man leans against his car.

Spreading his fingers out on the top.

He finishes his cigarette.

Flicks the butt into the trash can.

Looks down the street.

I photograph the ornate drain spouts on the building above the corner store.

Suddenly the man straightens up.

He casually raises his hand.

“Mei Lee” he says.

Across the street a shy looking woman comes up the hill.

She doesn’t hear.

“Mei Lee” he says louder.  He raises his hand higher.

She crosses in front of the corner market.

Hears him.

Turns.

Smiles hesitantly.

A half smile.

A half wave.

Then she walks past the flowers, turns, and heads down the steep hill and is gone.

“If I am right,” I say to myself.

If I am right, he’ll leave now.

The man tosses his soda can into the trash can., gets into his car and drives away.

I glance at my partner on the phone, his back turned to me on our getaway vacation,

and I watch the man who paid a meter to park his car and stood waiting half an hour for a shy smile and a half wave.

I watch his car disapper in the opposite direction and wonder.

What’s next?

What happens next?

And does she know he’s in love with her?

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem        2/24/09

A Crack in the Night

A small woman unlocked

the gate and stepped 1/2

way out; her hand

never leaving the metal

bars, she stood, face

in the rain, gate held open.

She was old.

She peered up the

street and down, then

up again.

Behind her the wooden

door opened and a

younger woman stepped

out.  Not quite a girl, but

hardly more than.

She spoke to her mother.

Her mother said, “He

has not come yet,”

only it was in Cantonese

which I don’t speak.

She looked again into

the rainy street. Her

daughter beckoned and

she turned, clunking

the gate shut.

And as I walked past

I glimpsed worn wooden

steps to a tiled hall-way,

a door open on the left

to a tiny kitchen,

a photo on the wall,

a paper lantern,

and ancient fridge.

And smelled the food.

Then the yellow glow

closed with a click

and I walked by in

the rain on my

nightly vigil, pacing

the streets of the

city that’s not my own.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold 

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem         2/12/09

My Companions in Life

I wake up with

Despair in the morning.

he must crawl into my bed

in the predawn hours

because I become aware of him

every day between

four and five o’clock.

he lies close,

breathing my air,

wrapping his arms around me,

grasping my thoughts,

enveloping me.

by the time I’m fully awake

Hopelessness is there, too.

sitting in my bedside chair,

staring me down.

looming as I get out

of bed.

but get up I do,

because to lie in

with Despair all day

seems the more

unbearable.

I have breakfast with Resign.

plodding into another day.

and by late afternoon

I am briefly with

Joy because I know

the day will be over soon.

by then I have forgotten that Despair never fails.

he is lurking, waiting to creep in

at the darkest hour.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem       date unknown - probably 10/2008

Untitled

I sold my 5 senses

for security.

As insurance against

loneliness I wagered

my right to think

and feel.

And even to hear.

And also to speak.

But especially to BE.

Insurance only

insures against the

inevitable, so it will

pay out when I no

longer care.

How wonderful and

foreign it would be

to fall back and let

the light wash over

me - seeing it coming,

feeling its warmth

increase,

almost to

singe my skin, my

core. Then pass

me by, sputtering

and blinking until

it’s dark.

What a wonder it

would be to BE.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold

[elizjjwoldtoo]

earlier poem       Date unknown. fall 08 or winter 09

Untitled

My heart used to

come up and visit

my mind - and

share what was

going on, but that

doesn’t happen any

more.

My mind has to trudge down to see

my heart.

It finds it curled

up in a ball. It

pokes it with a

stick to see if it’s

alive.  It twitches

like a roly poly bug

and curls back up.

It doesn’t even look me

in the eye.

My mind shrugs

and trudges back

upstairs.

Maybe tomorrow.

by Elizabeth Johnson-Wold