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SUSAN JOHNSTON OWEN-JAZZ  /  SITE OWNER/MUSICIAN, WRITER,ARTIST, ELEMENTARY AND SPECIAL EDUCATION TEACHER (RETIRED)

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MISCELLANEOUS POETRY TOPICS

MISC. POETRY TOPICS

Susan Johnston Owen ©

 

 


 

My Computer Doesn't Make Me Wonder Woman

 

Every day I tell myself there’s work that I must do,

but I go to one of my social sites and my mind goes all askew.

There are messages and comments I really must address,

but please note I’m not organized, my files are a mess.

 

Family and friends are a priority; I pray they’ll understand,

however,  dump me when they seem ignored, owed a reprimand?

It’s no one’s’ fault but my own,  it’s all so fascinating,

nevertheless, I can’t do it all and may deserve a berating.

 

My intentions are always good you see, but Wonder Woman I’m not.

Nevertheless cutting back has been useless, curiosity is my lot.

Forgive me if I’m not speedy,  good manners were taught in my home,

except they never dealt with all of the embellishments aiming at my dome.

 

 

You see I’m the generation who had to dial the telephone, my cell I do abhor.

I have come to realize you can get anything you need without using the door.

Unless you like fresh air, lunch out with a friend and gardens in full bloom,

life could get dreadfully boring, depending on a machine might bring doom.

 

So I’m telling my computer, that we’ve gotten way to close, I want to see a show.

It is a valuable resource, incredibly useful no doubt, bar the fact it doesn’t hug,

However, it’s been an amazing journey to meet people all over the universe.

It’s opened my eyes to much information, so don’t allow this to seem terse.

 

There’s an amazing world in this machine, it saves more time that lost,

excluding the time I should be cleaning the house, but I don’t mind that cost.

I’ve decided not to worry about the things I can’t control, that’s life;

when I say I want a cleaning person for Christmas,  it would rid me of this strife

 

Susan Johnston Owen 10/26/2014  ©2014

 

TEXTING TRAUMA

They said her words are antiquated,

in this electronic world unappreciated.

Unable to deal with the abbreviated,

to her the language was being amputated.

 

   Thoughts and theories once joyously narrated,

were turning into senseless lines now dislocated.

Fearing we may become indoctrinated,

with talk weak spirited, completely unmerited.

 

Is this the age of jeopardized knowledge,

forfeited language haplessly ravaged?

Hence shall we fear the departure of coveted terms,

apparently blistered with contracted speech?

 

Watch the patrons in public places,

has their ability to speak been erased?

They appear engrossed in little electronics,

has verbal communication been expelled?

 

Have we become accustomed to these gadgets

which appear to be stealing face to face interaction?

Once merited for inspirational thoughts contributed,

shall the fate of riveting stories flounder and banish?

 

Accustomed to the way we once communicated,

will knowledge be tarnished with new equipment,

or enlighten the world with a hungered speed?

Unprofessed,  untendered,  passing on a wearied thought,

that may just pull the plug on LOL.


                                           Just thinking "What if?"

 

Susan Johnston Owen ©2014   


 

 

Glistening Silver

 

Glistening silver
caught the light,

fingers dancing
bring music to light.
Little by little

I bring you close
holding my mouth

to your cold lip,
many years keeping

music in my grip.

One finger at a time,

across your body flows.
Playing you gently

to hear a lone tone,
or feed you air lightly

emits a sweet tune?
You are a friend

connected to me,
following directions

keeping the key.

I finger you one way

you giggle and run;
push you another

deep feelings are spun
My lips control the

sounds you will make,
fingers the music, tone.
Tonight feeling joyful

anxious to see how much

of a dance you can do.

Fingers fly deftly

release lovely songs.
That's just a warm up

to what you can do,
I'll make you sing

out with joyous glee.

Giving your sweet love,
that no human will share
you bring me music,

I give you life,
together we break the day's din...

 

Susan Johnston Owen

5/2009


My Muse and Me

 

Words fly, spin,
twirling in circles
winding up my head.
Some come with ease
only here to please
few serve up strife
piercing your heart.

They glide through me
with their own reality
by dreams that hold
deep in ones' soul.
Playing, hopping
a delirious romp
whimsical harmonies.

Guided where my mind
dares to tread,
Over, round like
fevered wind fills din.
Words are ecstasy
giving hearts a chance
to deal with sad circumstance
freeing the pain of disguised
wounds. Joy is the path they
take, floating profound.

Bringing my minds' mirror
to the top. Rising above a
world of epic splendor
I'll be cured as my pen
dances round on the page.
The ravages of the day are
released, allowing escape
to soar with the dreams.


Fairy wishes move forward,

spinning rapidly ablaze.
They guide me, hold me in awe
secure my heart to strength;

knit words passionately.
Words lift me off the ground
to soar in the clouds with my muse.
Some days she's quiet, some days still,
waiting to share words, what a thrill!!!!

 

Susan Johnston Owen 4/5/2011



Playing With Words


We'll say it is not personal

at least not hypocritical

for me to get pedantical

at least not hypercritical

there are some things habitual

I'm sick of all things lyrical

when forced to be mechanical

my temper will be historical

it is to me ironical

frequently hysterical

that some can be so jovial

not at all disgressional

when being hypochondriacal

when problems are so trivial

some things may be exceptional

this ditty is my worst of all

I'm feeling a bit dramatical

this rhyming is so musical

alas it is too genial

I find it too eccenttrical

ironical , yet natural,

it can be problematical, erotical

how about diabolical

oh look what I have done

sjo/jazz

 


Dawn

Early each day as dawn gently arrives

the sounds around are still, serene,

 hums of the heater,  purr of the cat,

 my beating heart remains tranquil.

 

At five in the morning no one bothers me,

the blankets comforting touch pacifies.

The snow of the past night is pure white,

lying there nothing disturbs this solitude.

 

There's not a thought of last night's pain,

the reasons sleep is problematical,

or why I've chosen to leave a heart broken;

all the conflicts in my brain rest soundly.

 

At this hour getting up is MY choice,

nothing else matters, there's no voice.

My demons aren't rustling, lie fast asleep.

At five in the morning the clock doesn't tick,

there's nothing to do, sleep the obvious choice.

sjo/jazz 9/9/2011




 

 

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