Search

Search results

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

ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

The Hunter and the Fawn

For a breathless instant while we both stood still, I felt a wondrous kinship with the wild. This was our world, this fragrant, green-clothed hill, And God loved me, and I loved nature's child. Its liquid eyes begged of me not to shoot, Reproached me for usurping its domain. For in its eyes, I was the untamed brute.... It was I who fled -- and I won’t hunt again.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

Epitaphs

Their names are written on the sides Of boxcars in which they hook rides. Their names also appear on shacks Along the miles of railroad tracks. I have often wondered why it’s so, And now at last I think I know; The reason why their names appear, Is due to wistfulness, it’s clear. For hoboes are lonely, vagrant souls, Without real roots and clear-cut goals, Who long to leave some lasting sign To prove they, too, shared Life’s design.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

Spring Creek

In the Spring it is trout in a shadowy hole, That lure me back to the creek; Its quiet beauty is balm for my soul; The waters a sermon speak. In Summer it is berries big and sweet; The lazy drone of the bees; The forest creatures I so often meet, And the fragrance of every breeze. In Autumn it is the roar of a gun; The startled, elusive deer. The pride in a trophy sportingly won, When season’s end draws near. In Winter it is trap-lines long and cold, The return to my warm log camp; The adventure stories which at night are told, By the light of a flickering lamp.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

Dry Rot

Within the secret chambers of my heart, I have stored too much of Yesterday. And now I fear that it may break apart, Sapped of its strength by dry decay. For I have learned that stored-up memories Are not enough, that phantoms are not friends. Without new dreams, my weary heart foresees, A dead tomorrow as each gray day ends. Today is for the living heart, -- the brave, While yesteryear is gone beyond recall. And if too much of it we try to save, Our treasure turns to wormwood and to gall.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

Ex-Soldier and the Deer

Ah, frightened creature, Having fled into my barn, You can stop trembling now, You are safe from harm. For I, too, have known The spiteful crack of guns, The fear of sudden death, How unseen bullet stuns. Lie down upon the floor, Fear not the hunter’s shout. Here, I will close the door, Now you just wait it out. I have known like fears; My barn is yours to use Till friendly night appears, Forever, if you choose.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

The Dam Builders

I called him garrulous, but then, I did not know That all his words were but sandbags With which he built a dam Around himself. But now, grown old, I’ve learned most men Who talk too much, Like me, are vainly building dams Against the sea Of loneliness.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: