Archive for May 2014

Little Bug Jed

Little Bug Jed fell asleep in the bed

while all curled up by a boy named Ned

When morning came, little bug Jed

woke up to find Ned’s turtle named Fred

hungrily chomping on another bug’s head.

In fright he jumped from the bed beside Ned

before being snatched and eaten by Fred.

________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Bug notes; There are times when the spirit moves me and inspiration comes in different ways, and I will move from a serious post or piece or even a serious story to one with a humorous or light approach to brighten the day and I want to feel the fantasy take me beyond the mundane realities in this world. Thus, in the recent months or past I have posted a poem or story to go with a funny or crazy little image to lighten the mood. Hope you enjoy the little poems or stories along the way to my ‘Fantasy Land’, a place I loved and enjoyed at Disneyland and Disneyworld.

Posted May 28, 2014 by Joyce in My Writings, Poems, poetry, Short Fiction

Tagged with , ,

Memory on the menu – The Daily Post

These are my thoughts and post for The Daily Post word prompt on Memory on the menu

Memories can be sweet, whether past, or present. They can also be bitter, or left forgotten, hoping not to resurface, or ones hopefully that teach us if a lesson was learned from the experience. They can even be hidden in the recessed corners of our mind.They can serve us well in many ways. I have wonderful memories from my past. But, I have ones too that left an unforgettable bitterness that resonated long after no matter how hard I wanted to forget them. But, the happy memories are the ones I hope to never forget and cheerfully draw on for that moment of sweet reminiscing. They are many, and fortunately they are the ones that make up the biggest percentage of my memory. Memory is more than a basic requirement for our brain to function well. It is the life source for our soul to feel and experience living in a way we hope never to lose as we age. My father died much to early from malignant brain cancer and towards the end of his life he had lost all of his memory and brain function. I do now and will continue to do all I can to keep my own and keep it well.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/memory-menu/

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Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Campfire Stories

Misc. and family 1488Misc. and family 1489

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harley and Hampton

 

He scuffed along in prospector’s boots, plaid flannel shirt, and dungarees made of the stock of heavy blue denim. Too many years in the harsh elements had turned his skin the color of rust and as tough as dried apricots. The rare nuggets or elusive gold vein was all but non-existent now. He’d seen little of it. The sun bore down on him with a vengeance from the 10,000 foot Sasquatch range.  He lifted the felt brimmed hat from his head and wiped his shirtsleeve across the sweat beads on his forehead.

His burro, Hampton, coarse tufts of stiff hair sticking up from his neck clopped alongside him dutifully carrying the old miner’s picks, shovel, tin pans and ax dangling to one side of the mounted leather girdle. The noise could be heard clear up the mountain side as they traversed their way down steep hills.

“Hampton, I think we’ll camp here for the night. I’ll find us a jack rabbit or something for supper.”

He noticed a rundown old store from the road. It looked deserted, desolate. There were no stirrings of life save the deer and small game. He pulled the shotgun from its scabbard on the burro’s pack and led him along the overgrown weeded path into town. The wind roared through the canyon, ricocheting off the peaks. He didn’t notice anything unusual at first. There were so many Chinook winds that came round in late spring howling so loud they sounded like the growl of a hungry bear on the scent of prey.

Tendrils swirled about where wind gusts kicked up dirt and gravel. Some stopped, forming dust clouds emanating sounds like boards rattling, or shovels clanging. Raucous laughter could be heard from some near place. The wind currents carried the sound as it echoed down the meadow to the dry streambeds, and back again as if settling near the old store.

“Welcome,” came a booming voice.

Harley’s hair and beard bristled. He nervously scanned everything in sight afraid of what they might see as he rolled his eyes from side to side.

“Hampton! You hear that? I could’ve sworn I heard a… ” And, then he did. Again.

The old burro raised his head, ears flicking, as if swatting a fly.

“Welcome, newcomer,” came the sound louder, closer, all around him. It roared through the valley sounding like multiple voices, one after the other.

He would have made a hasty retreat from the valley back up the hillside if not so tired and weary.

“What… are you? Where are you?” the old miner yelled back in a shaky voice.

“I’m right here. Can’t you see? Oh, I’m sorry. I forget sometimes those who are not like us cannot see us. I’m the town mayor. Let me introduce myself. My name is Grayson.”

“Mayor of what? What is this place?”

“It’s called Thornbush, named for the founder of this here mining community. He sometimes walks about checking on things, making sure things are done properly for all the newcomers. We have a nice cabin available if you want to check in, or just rest a spell before sojourning on your way, and supplies in the store. What can I get for you?”

“I can’t even see you. How do you expect me to find a cabin?”

“It’s here, right down this road. I’ll take you there. It’s been years since we’ve had any newcomers in these parts. Folks just want to hurry on by, not stop, though we try to make them feel at home.”

The air suddenly felt cooler as dust clouds swooped down, swirling around him until he felt caught in the storm that blew from all directions. Unable to move or see which way to run, they suddenly released their grip, and Harley tightened his hold on Hampton’s reins as he brayed again, resisting the pull of his owner.

“You said your name is Grayson? Where are you? What are you, a ghost?”

“Well, I guess some would call me that, but I don’t like to scare people off and it doesn’t sound like a good job description for the mayor of a mining camp, does it? But, I take my job seriously and it isn’t easy running a town like ours. What is your name? We like to record our visitors’ names in our town’s register.”

“It’s Harley. My burro’s name is Hampton.”

“Well, Harley and Hampton, welcome to Thornbush. Now, let’s get you settled where you will be more comfortable.”

They passed a cemetery on the way to the cabin. The dust clouds moved about the cemetery, hovering over graves, the sound of shovels hitting against the stones. The old miner’s hair stood up on end. Hampton brayed again. “hee-haw. hee-haw.

“Who are all those buried there?”

“Just other miners who stopped one day, and decided to stay.”

“What happened to them?”

“Well, they remained, and lingered on until their time came. God bless their souls, and rest their bones. They wanted to belong, and after all we are an obliging bunch.”

One hundred years later a traveler happened upon the old mining camp with its collapsing buildings, saloon and cabins nearby. He heard the braying of a donkey somewhere and entered the rundown vacated store with the mind to just wander around and explore. He pulled out his camera to take some shots when a dust cloud settled, and began to speak.

“Welcome to Thornbush. My name is Harley. Can I get you something?  We have a cabin available if you’d like to rest for the night.”

_______________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

None I see…

 

There is none I see

Who walks this lone road with me

But one who whispers

In the wind’s soft breeze that blows,

“It is I who walks with thee.”

__________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

The Book Mobile

It was a truck of sorts, a library on wheels

full of posters, maps and books to explore.

I was lifted from the pages to another world,

from the Amazon jungles to a New Zealand shore.

Like a soaring kite my dreams would fly

as if to a magical place beyond,

through billowing soft clouds high up in the sky.

Sometimes my heart found a new friend

living between the covers of a book

sharing secrets, confessions and experiences in life.

And, I could imagine their face and their world

as the images and visions swirled around in my head,

and the stories and characters that lived on as I read.

Some I would go back and visit again

choosing them over another new ‘friend’ instead

when I climbed aboard the ‘book mobile.’

_____________________

Page notes: The ‘Book Mobile’ was the traveling library that came every week to my elementary school in Colorado Springs, Colorado. We were allowed thirty minutes to browse, look through the selection of books of all kinds and on all subjects, both fiction and nonfiction, and then check out our choice for that week. We were given a week to read that book or books if we chose two (our limit) before returning it/them the following week to check out another. It was one of the events while in grade school I loved most because it was what I loved doing most; reading.

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

 

 

 

 


Posted May 14, 2014 by Joyce in My Writings, poetry, Reading

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As beautiful as a rose

Misc. and family 1204

There is no job more

worthy of honor or praise,

none more difficult;

~~~

None more deserving

of earning payment or raise

than that called ‘Mother.’

~~~

She gives of herself.

With her heart she nurtures those

she’s given to love.

~~~

She embraces life

because she cherishes what

she is blessed to have.

______________

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL MOTHERS AND GRANDMOTHERS OUT THERE!

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)


The Daily Post: Weekly writing challenge, Student/Teacher

Good writing is not

in perfected form, but in

a corrected form

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Submitted for the http://dailypost.wordpress.com/     Weekly writing challenge,  Student/teacher

The above haiku poem is a lesson I learned when I was a member of the Christian Writers’ Guild years ago and mentored under instructors like Jerry B. Jenkins (author of the New York Times best-selling Left Behind book series and founder of the CWG) whom I admire and respect as a writer. While being mentored by a published author assigned to me I learned that good writing is the result of re-written, revised and re-edited material not just once, but a number of times. And it has paid off considerable times when I have resubmitted pieces to publishers after the first and consecutive rejections. If after the third rejection and re-edited, revised material one might reconsider or re-examine the piece entirely and decide it is worthy of submitting again and again. But, in the process it can make one a better writer and teach perseverance and patience. I think that is the ultimate lesson a writer learns above all.

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

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