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Sad, E. H. Johnson, in English Clear filters

SadE. H. Johnson

Iron Ore Miner

He grubbed each day within a sunless mine, Deep in the earth, where lay the iron ore; Came out, ore-stained, and with an aching spine He hurried home to sleep and dream once more. On Sunday he would sit in his front yard, His stiff white shirt worn with uneasy smile. Forgotten now, his week of labor hard, As gratefully he owned sunshine a while. He planned that some day after he retired, He would relax in some warm, sunny clime. Alas, too soon, the poor old man expired, Went underground -- to stay there for all time.
SadE. H. Johnson

Crucifixion

Impaled Upon cruel thorns, The rose-moth writhes, While love-dreams, pierced by sharp words, Die painfully.
SadE. H. Johnson

In an Oxygen Tent

My starving lungs draw in the cold, clean air; My eyes are closed, but I know you are there Beside my bed. So much remains unsaid... If I could talk, I’d speak my love for you In phrases old, and yet so very new. But I am mute -- the pain grows more acute. I think of how much your love means to me, Of countless things we planned to do and see. Love, I was wrong to postpone them so long. I recall all the busy times I planned I would later pause to gently press your hand. Why did I wait so late, so late? My heart cries out to tell you there is hope. The Valley is dark, but I shall climb its slope. We must believe, rather than grieve. And if God wills that we share future days,
SadE. H. Johnson

Echoing Heart

My heart is filled with echoes, dear, Since you have gone away. Your lilting voice sings in my ear As in our Yesterday. And though I seek another’s arms To fill my echoing heart, There’s something lacking in her charms, And we soon drift apart. True romance cannot come to me; It is already here. I'm chained to you by memory, And echoes of you, dear.
SadE. H. Johnson

The Homeplace

Forlorn and grieving, it now stands, Uncared for by the owner’s hands. The hedge is ragged, grass grown long. No laughter there, or lilting song. Within, its floors are bare and dusty. The air is stale and cold and musty. Its sagging front door creaks and groans, Small boys have wounded it with stones. Thus stands the old place, haunted, grim. Mute testimony of our vagrant whim-- New horizons beckoned to our hearts one day And so we left,---the house now pines away.
SadE. H. Johnson

Bereft

He doesn’t like children, so they have said. He has lost his own, and his heart is dead. They know not of his walks ’neath the pale moon’s laughter, Of his trysts with memory and that tears flow after. They do not know that a small boy's grin Stabs like a knife, hurting deep within. But as from children he withdraws and shrinks, My heart is too much alive, he thinks.
SadE. H. Johnson

In Memoria

The years roll by, once more December; The blinding snows fall once again. With aching heart I still remember The snows fell like this then. A white mantle, shadowed with blue, Spread thickly over barren ground, Compassionately hiding from view, The frozen new-made mound... The stars shine down this winter night, Just as they did so long ago. Pray God, your star shines soft and bright, To warm this heart that is grieving so.
SadE. H. Johnson

P.O.W.

I close my eyes and see the rolling fields, And breathe the autumn air, scented with sage. It is then my homesick, longing spirit yields, And hot tears flow -- for I'm locked in a cage. Old dreams return to haunt me at year’s fall, White flags of deer, the whir of startled grouse, Smoke rising upward, climbing straight and tall, In a silvery pillar above an old farmhouse. I miss these things, but miss you most of all, When summer dies and autumn breezes blow. Yet it is with joy I look to this year's fall, For Spring -- and you! -- wait just beyond the snow.

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