Author: kimhaynesjohnson

 

Coming to My Senses

When it’s time for the Schnoodles 

to go to the groomers for the day, 

we leave before the sun comes up – and it’s breathtaking because 

in the early morning I see

the predawn Christmas lights still shining a fantasy of dazzling brilliance 

festive wreaths hung from red velvet ribbons on rural hometown bank windows

jetliners drawing Etch-a-Sketch pictures on a daybreak sky

steam vapors swirling up off the ponds, summer fishing days a half-Earth rotation away

a heavenly greeting hawk on a wire in the median – from Mom, checking to be sure my doors are locked, I’m not speeding, and I’m wearing my seatbelt 

a flurry of other more excited dogs arriving for grooming and daycare 

in the early morning I smell

a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, flavoring the car with high-octane energy for the day ahead

diesel fumes from school buses,

like the red double decker buses of London – bringing flashback memories 

still-lingering mineral soap scent inspired by the coast of Ireland, according to the box

in the early morning I hear

the silence of my car prayer chamber and God’s voice reminding me that there is both work to be done and life to be lived 

in the early morning I feel

the comforting heat flooding my feet and hands as I drive 

a frequent paw nudging my hand to turn the Rav around: “no grooming needed today, Mom….we’re good”

and in the early morning I taste 

the frozen air, awakening my lungs with the chill of newness as I walk the boys before taking them in for their early-morning groomings because yes, grooming is happening today! 

 

Perspectives 

Impressionism in art

and

Lack of communication 

  between people

Are two different ways 

  of interpreting the world 

 

Don’t Be a Monkey! 

When they hang by their tails, they

Show

How

Immature

This

Schoolkid-

Like

Illness

Narcissism

Goes 

 

Family Tricube 

Family

Legacy

Burial

Vindictive 

Exclusive 

Dysfunction 

Fragmented

Consequence

Secession

Spoonerism Pantoum 

taking a family Thanksgiving walk

on the Johnson Funny Farm

holes everywhere in the tufted ground 

“What are they? They’re everywhere!”

on the Johnson Funny Farm

pine straw sticking up like golf divots 

“What are they? They’re everywhere!”

Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”

pine straw sticking up like golf divots 

like a foursome gone club-crazy

Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”

he mixes up his words sometimes 

like a foursome gone club-crazy

holes everywhere in the tufted ground 

he confused aardvarks with armadillos 

taking a family Thanksgiving walk 

 

Thanksgiving Feast 

Our resident fox squirrel

is savoring his Thanksgiving feast

one day late ~

–

exactly 48 miles due south of Atlanta,

114 miles southeast of Dahlonega,

159 miles southwest of Hiawassee.

222 miles northwest of Savannah, 

279 miles northeast of Seaside, and 

287 miles northwest of St. Simons

–

~ right around the corner from the critter’s Christmas-treat-laden tree in the front yard at the top of a railroad tie in the sunshine on the Johnson Funny Farm 

….and we are smiling from the kitchen window, where he has now abandoned his half-eaten apple at the top of the post and would have left us scratching our heads at that apple had we not seen the feast take place!

 

Christkindl

Christkindl Market

here I come! Said it for years

but mean it this time. 

German chocolate

Glockenspiel and angel chimes

Glutwein in a mug! 

 

Peaceful, Easy Groove

No big production

Picked up pre-cooked pig and bird

Whipping up fixings 

Laid-back Thanksgiving

Foregoing the flusterings 

Keeping it simpler

Peaceful, easy groove 

More time spent with each other 

Less fussing with food 

Jigsaw puzzle out 

For quiet moment seekers

Introvert’s delight 

Front porch loveseats spiffed

Coffee tables ready for

folks to sit and chat

This is how Sundays 

Used to be in the old days

Families gathered 

Big-table dinner

Then they branched off to play cards

Gossip over tea 

No conversations

About hot-button issues

That dampen spirits 

So light up the tree 

“Hey, Google! Play some music.”

Pour a glass of wine 

Let the dogs outside

Play fetch and take a short walk 

Eat buttermilk pie 

Happy Thanksgiving 

From the Johnson Funny Farm

May your days be blessed! 

 

Come On Home Down Country Roads  

Go past the historic red brick courthouse on the city square where men fight against development and complain there’s no internet 

Go left at the Hallmark Christmas tree, 

fragrant balsam standing tall,

winking love to all, a gift each year from a tree farmer in our rural Georgia country farmland

Go on through the hometown sidewalks bustling with fresh holly-filled evergreen wreaths on every door – the Mortons, the Sawyers, the Demarcos, and all the other names in the church directories for miles on end, people smiling and waving from restored front porches

Go straight down to the dirt road, and turn the window down a crack to hear the crunch of gravel under the pickup truck tires, as every outside farm dog comes running to the road’s edge to take a good hard look with a warning greeting 

Go past the cinnamon-roll haybales standing on their sides, scattered across the rolling hill pastures like manna fallen from heaven, acres and acres outlined in rustic wood-rail fences

Go past the old tobacco barn now home to tractors and balers and machinery that makes it all easier for the great great grandsons of the first generation farmers 

Go right at the fishing ponds where the cat-tails sway and the frogs trill songs of praise for the day and the steam rises like slow-mo ballet dancers on cold mornings 

Go real slow at the roadside stand, the honor system produce market where the farmer leaves a money bucket for the good folks of Pike County to pay for their collards and pumpkins – and tip your hat, if you’re wearin’ one and see somebody 

Go on up to the holy cows, the ones who run together in a big herd toward the cross on the hill every evening at five o’clock sharp when they’re called home 

Go past the old dilapidated cannery, where the women of this town in war-time all worked to preserve the food grown here to feed the nation 

Go over the railroad tracks – the ones that brought all the folks before us out to line the streets as President Franklin D. Roosevelt in his casket rode through the small towns from his home over in Warm Springs all the way back to D.C. 

Go on down past the fire tower and Gregg’s peach orchard, past the old cemetery with its moss-covered headstones, over the creek and through the piney woods to the Johnson Funny Farm and

Come on in, greet the dogs in their full-body wags and sit down and have a glass of sweet tea with a mint sprig in a mason jar with me! 

 

Linda Mitchell challenged me to a Tricube today! A Tricube is a 9 syllable poem of 3 lines, each comprised of 3 syllables, and commonly written in 3 stanzas for a total of 27 syllables. 

River Tricube

when writing,
ride river
word rapids!

droughts will come
so will rains ~
levels change

when words flow
grab your pen: 
listen in!