Recipe for Autumn

artwork: ralph murre

Recipe for Autumn

by Joan Wiese Johannes

You do not need a recipe.

All you need has gathered

in your freezer, on your doorstep,

and on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator

where the bunch of celery, minus

the thin stalk the cookbook called for,

begs you to let it flavor soup.

You do not need to leave home.

In the freezer there are ham hocks boiled

when the price was low

and corn on the cob bought from the farmer

who crumpled your money

into the pocket of his overalls,

making himself richer, making you richer too.

You do not need the market.

Use the potatoes that appeared at the office

next to the sign, Help Yourself,

tomatoes from the picnic table

where your neighbor puts produce

she wants to share,

the purple beans the poet brought you,

and the stray peppers left on your porch.

You do not need to wait.

Even the catsup to thicken and brighten

your broth has settled in the plastic bowl

where your husband poured it after he

knocked the bottle off the pantry shelf.

You do not need a recipe;

all you need is here.

  ~ first published in Wisconsin Trails

Come Closer

digital art: ralph murre

Come Closer

by Joan Wiese Johannes

Heavy air wanders

around the corner of the barn

bends into evening

and staggers through the peonies

to meet me under the porch light

where dizzy moths flit

and midges swarm

around the naked bulb.

Tonight I wonder why

I once thought love darkens

too soon in June

when days are too long

and nights too eagerly late,

when  stems grow spindly

weak from

too much  too fast too soon.

A night-blooming blossom

luminous as the moon

reminds me of something

I should have done

~ previously appeared in Poetry Dispatch

Taps

maple-leaf ironwork design: r. murre - execution: big horn forge - photoart: r. murre

Taps

by Joan Wiese Johannes

It is syrup time,

and Tom tramps, taps, and talks

about the bear who took ten buckets

and left tracks around his camp.

He shakes his head and says

he hopes the fire

keeps it away when he boils down,

tells me he applied for a permit

as he mimes the pull of a trigger.

But I like his bear

will follow the trail of white buckets,

drink sap clear as streams.

I plan to walk circles around spring

before the big boil-down turns me

dark as bear fur thick as blood.

~ first published in Peninsula Pulse

Old Love

photo: ralph murre

Old Love

by Joan Wiese Johannes

In lust, we called it love on summer nights

when young, wild heartbeats mimicked feelings true.

We lit like sparklers, danced like flecks of light,

then flashed and burned as firecrackers do.

In daylight we were blackened ash, cold wire,

and paper bits like shreds of Valentine.

The air was toxic, fueled by hot desire;

canaries died when lowered in our mine.

But now, beside the river under trees

just saplings during that summer long ago,

we’re sunset, crickets, loons, a gentle breeze;

and over the smooth stones fresh water flows.

So, come into the home of my wise heart

so grateful for long decades spent apart.

~ first published in the Peninsula Pulse

Note Posted . . .

artwork: vincent van gogh (from old postcard reproduction)

Note Posted Under the Lost Pet Notices

by Joan Wiese Johannes

You probably don’t remember me, but I am wondering

why you no longer do your laundry on Friday nights.

You are the guy in your thirties who wore nice shirts,

usually plaid, suggesting that you came here from work,

which is good because I like men who work.

Your shirts were wrinkled, so I figured you were single.

And since you didn’t wash your sheets every week,

I surmised that you weren’t getting a lot, which is good

because a girl can’t be too careful these days.

Your underwear impressed me; briefs are unpretentious,

and you replace them before they go gray or the elastic dies.

I also liked the way you rolled your socks into little balls

before tossing them into your bag.  You never missed,

which is good because I like men who athletic.

I didn’t speak to you the first time I saw you because

I was wearing old, green sweatpants.

The next week, not expecting to see you again,

I wore my glasses and my hair was dirty.

Once I introduced you to Bounce when your towel stuck

to your tee shirt but was too shy to introduce myself.

Now I miss our meetings and hope you have just changed

your laundry schedule and haven’t lost your job, moved,

or found someone to iron your shirts.

~ first published in Free Verse