a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Sean Johnson
Papa

His skin, like caramel colored crepe streamers,
hangs on to yesteryear.
Gray orbits the brown of his eyes.
He smells a mixture of memories and Metamucil;
Lets me dig in his pockets for change
even though I am well past the age of penance
and no longer toss the pennies of my youth into fountains
in pursuit of a perfect tomorrow.
He speaks of the past in scattered scriptures.
I make moments to listen.
I am his favorite.
He still lets me sit on his lap
and calls me his purple heart.
He gives without reason;
Makes Mama jealous
that we keep time’s secrets.
He loves me,
and like knots,
we are tied intricately and with permanence.


I Dream, She Dreams

I dream
mulberry molasses
sweet
thick
silk nectar
American dreams
cooling on window sills
sea salted winds
making Casper of curtains
children chuckling
hope dancing

She dreams
buttermilk blood
cardboard
foul water
shrapnel
cane beatings
rain washing away chalk remains of love
burning flesh and gun powder

we are a product of the same environment
but I am the sum of lovers
and she
a quotient
 


Sean Johnson graduated from the University of Houston in 2002. Since then she has slammed and performed spoken word throughout the country and starred in several local plays. Her poetry has appeared in Pure Francis, Riversongs, American Society: What Poets See, Littlest Blessings, Houston Poetry Fest’s 2012 Anthology, and she has works appearing in Third Wednesday, In His Steps, and Drown in My Fears later this year. She resides in Houston, Texas with her dog Blue Belle.
 

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