Category Archives: Alice B. Johnson

October [a poem by my great-grandmother]

Thought it was time to feature Alice B. Johnson, my great-grandmother again with a rather “timely” piece….from her book, Where Children Live (1958). enjoy —

October

October always casts a magic spell
Upon me — I should know, too well,
What nature’s autumn wine
Will do to hearts like mine —
My lagging feet will, somehow, stray
Through dusty leaves, my heart will stay
Beside bright goldenrod
And where pink asters nod.

My steps will pause beside a zinnia bed,
Flaunting heads of orange and of red,
With maple leaves a sheet,
Blanketing their feet —
Melancholy days? Not these!
When nuts fall from the walnut trees,
Must busy squirrels remind me, too,
That I have housecleaning to do?

antique shop (by my great-grandmother)

From my great-grandmother’s poetry book, Where Children Live (1958). By Alice B. Johnson (and with it I learn we have a shared love of antiques!!)

Antique Shop
I shall pretend that I have come to buy
A walnut highboy from New England way–
An alabaster trinket box in which
To tuck my precious jewelry away.

A ruby goblet or a Spode tureen–
A lovely fragile Dreseden figure or
A silver coffee pot, a Sheffield tray–
Perhaps a shiny knocker for my door.

Which shall it be? I can’t make up my mind
Until another time (so I’ll pretend),
And none will know, but I, that in my purse
There’s just one silver dollar I may spend.

the yarn spinner

taken from my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Childern Live (1958).

The Yard Spinner

Intent on every word, the small boy hears
A story woven of an old man’s years
That, with the telling, finds a space to grow
In splendor for a boy who wants it so,
And, as the truly wonderous tale unravels,
Along an old world trail a small boy travels —
A boy who hangs upon each chosen word,
As with the spinning yarn the air is stirred,
Until the hero-worshipper is led,
His hand held fast in grandfather’s — to bed.

Wide Rivers

From my great-grandmother’s book of poetry, Where Children Live (1958)

Wide Rivers

A small boy has no use for gentle rains —
He watches with a weathered eye and mutters
For rains that come in torrents, flood the mains,
Overflowing streets and leaf-strewn gutters.

He sees wide rivers, far as eye can measure,
And, in storm-tossed debris, boats filled with treasure.

happy mother’s day~ "a mother’s heart"

Happy Mother’s Day~ spent a lovely weekend with my family and am so thankful for my mamma. She is the bestest!! A poem from my great-grandmother Alice that is especially appropriate. Shows that some things never change…. [taken from her book of poetry The Fruit Thereon]

A Mother’s Heart
A mother’s heart is tuned to listen for
The groping sound of hands upon a door —
The midnight striking of the mantel clock —
The turning of a key within the lock.

A mother knows when waiting hours are past
And each loved one is safe at home at last.

such lovely things

here’s a poem from my great-grandmother Alice. i just really liked this for today. comes from her book of poetry, Where Children Live (1958).

Such Lovely Things

Close to my heart, when I am old,
Such lovely things I’ll have and hold…

Sunlight dancing through the leaves…
The sound of doves in weathered eaves…

Purple lilacs in the rain…
Meadow flowers, waving grain…

A yellow moon, shining bright…
A single star in the night…

A redbird’s call, oriole’s song,
To echo through my whole live long…

Such lovely things I’ll have and hold
Close to my heart… when I am old.

In honor of post 101 ~ A Small Girl in the Rain by Alice B. Johnson

I’ve made it to post 101! Incredible! It’s a heavy day, grey clouds thick with rain, sidewalks still wet. Perfect day in a quiet coffee shop (except for the reggae!) to write. Think, write. All this alone time in my head is starting to effect my mental state…. thinking all about generations and families and “free will.” I have just finished a Taylor Caldwell book as well (not sure if anyone here would be familiar with her work). Clearly, I could continue to ramble but I think I’ll save it and maybe put these cluttered thoughts to better use later. Here, now, is poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson that I felt fitting for the day:

Small Girl in the Rain

The small girl, with her face uplifted to
The gentle summer rain, stands very still,
Her hands outstretched to catch each lovely drop
That falls in pattering enchantment till
She feels its mystic touch. She opens wide
Her laughing mouth, as if to quench her thirst
With dancing drops that struggle to elude
The questing tongue, stuck out to catch them first.

Her small heart quivers with her love of life,
With windswept rain and each small living thing…
Drawn to bright loveliness of bird and bloom,
And to the lowly earthworm’s tunneling
Beneach her feet. Small goddess of the earth,
With arms upraised, she strives as if to capture
Earth…sky…the magic of the wind and the rain,
And keep the treasure of this new-found rapture.

She feels the vibrant urgency above…below…
Not knowing what it is that stirs her so.

The Spring Will Come Again (Alice B.)

Another piece from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson from her book “Where Children Live” (1958)

The spring will come again–
To every war-torn land. Winter’s gloom
Will flee each hill
Where children still
Will seek the violets that bloom
Beside a country lane.

The spring will come again–
Shell craters will be grassy hollows where
The quail will nest
And wild fowl rest
While lifted wings of swallows there
Will brush the gentle rain.

The spring will come again–
And stately trees will leaf and shield
The trunks stripped bare
That mutely stare
Across bleak meadows that will yield
A wealth of golden grain.

The Silver Ring (Alice B.)

A poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson…

The Silver Ring

Within my palm a ring of silver weighed
The many years that marched in swift parade,
As treasured memories it stirred today–
Small silver ring with trinkets laid away.

Once long ago, my daughter, you possessed
The silver ring within my palm now pressed–
I see again your wonder at each move
Of finger where it made a gleaming groove.

How strange to think, the long years through,
It waited this day to return to you–
A silver ring and memories that linger–
I wonder– will it fit YOUR daughter’s finger?

…It fits my finger. I have only this to say:

how to explain?
the words could have been mine, but they’re not.
they cover my mind
with disbelief and astonishment
that curls the corners of my
Cheshire grin.
how can this be? I read on
and on and it is all so familiar.
a déjà vu of structure
and metaphor.
it sits heavy in my gut, a premonition
of thoughts—
this will not be the end of us.

winter sun

From my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson (as published in “Where Children Live” (1958))… for a morning where I was woken by the icy resistance and give way scrape, boot crunching ritual of car cleaning before work…

Winter Sun

The winter sun is bright,
Though winds blow loud and shrill,
And plants grow tall and green
Upon the window sill.

It is as if their leaves,
Forgetting winter’s chill,
Lean toward the warmth of the sun,
Remembering summer still.