j. Johnson Smith, Three poems

Voyeur of Memory

I could name them, every one.
No, that’s a lie.
I can see them, each and every,
And apologise
For what was never done
Under the sky
Or danced in moving revelry
And heated sighs.

Old man. Voyeur of memory.
False mood of what was never acted on.
Think that I
Am faithful to the memory of lies?
As if the carp was
Mirrored fondly on the heron’s mind
As she searched her stolen nest?

Rivers, scoured by the sea.
As hopes may die.
I can watch them, each and every,
And heart’s rise
For what may become
Under the sky
So gently moved by devilry,
And rested lies.

 

Mist

I nodded to the old man across the way,
Touched my finger to my brow in acknowledgement
Of the way he looked at me.
He returned the touch, hand slowly raised and finger bent,
A nod just faint enough to see the glitter in his eye
To say he was not saluting now.

And the woman by his side sat still and smiled.
She glanced at me and nudged his arm, then turned away,
Speaking to the air.
I watched, waiting for the moment to have my say
But when the pair took hand and turned back to me
I fudged the chance.

The crowd came in, the noisy throng, the drinking song.
The drinking song?  A rhyme no longer relevant
But you’re okay with the thrashing, spinning element
Of slot machine and nearly karaoke.

So, I look to the woman in the glass,
The face I scarcely see and wonder what I would have said.
What I would have dared to ask.

 

Is that it?

As my sister said, “Well! It’s all about semantics, then.”
Note the lack of question mark for I can’t recall whether it was rhetorical
Or statement or doubtful question penned in air.

It made me think of Schindler’ List, which I haven’t read.
And then again of Titanic’s list which could be viewed at least two ways
Or Schrodinger’s cat, alive or dead in there.

With Tennyson’s doggerel and Holloway’s monologues
You might spot the intent of rhythms different or lesser
Or check the words and see the metre of Shaw’s Pygmalion professor.

So, with glossary in hand and ruler ready and lemonade
I sit well in a chair with the sound of Walton’s Facade ringing round the auditoria.
Or maybe it’s just some other antics.
j. johnson smith
08/02/2014.
DJS

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About poetryparc2

Here goes: I write a bit of poetry, sometimes about poetry and any sort of books I take a fancy to. I seem to have a preference for seeing the changes from the Victorian period through to the 1930's, maybe 50's. But, and a big but, could carry that right up to current poetry/performance poetry. Though sometimes my seeming preference for 'imagist' and Nature' might unnerve me for too much too modern. However, I do like to range widely over poetry, and fiction, any and all periods. I also like finding (if only for me) regional or partly forgotten poems and poets. Maybe all this is too eclectic to have a themed 'Blog' but so be it....... I also attempt fiction that might add up to a small mole-hill one day. Plus reviewing new or old books that are relevant to my enthusiasms of Crime fiction, the Arts, Natural History and Special Education. This is on 'wordparc'. I try to record honestly what I think but if something is too bad (to my mind, others may love it!!) then I will not 'blog'. There, what's that if not seemingly random!
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