A Home Full of Hope

Hope floats around my house it fogs the windows and clogs the drains but it smells of lemons and roses. And so we just wipe our fogged windows clean…..

Hope floats around my house it fogs the windows and clogs the drains but it smells of lemons and roses. And so we just wipe our fogged windows clean and continue to clear our drains. Because a home without hope is no home at all. We give thanks for todays and pray for our tomorrows. Just one more day, one more word, one more prayer.

-Saschia Johnson

 

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Moraldom

Saschia Moraldom

Moraldom

Wrap me in white and send me along,
away to a place where there’s no rules

Rock me steady on a hollow log
listen for my beats, while I drift along

Gift me your love while in white I dream
but what I want is to be alone, I suppose

watch as everything escapes from your scheme
but please oh please let my lover of prose

Sing until I’m a blooming rose.

 

-Saschia Johnson

 

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passionate seekers

Elsewhere

The distractions are monstrous

the drive to replace the mask of positivity

and the plague of territorial jealousy

like a jack in the box I never wound

but I love when it rains

and I love when you show your true face

the rugged one

the one you’ve hidden in your arm pit

insisting it be swiped with deodorant

the stink you wish only to release on your death bed

that is the one I wish to see

that is where love lies

-Saschia Johnson

 

Rainy Days

 

Caged from Words

I pace back and forth

like a caged animal

waiting

for a stray hand

and an unsuspecting little one

Maybe just one time they won’t pay attention

and I can slip them between the bars

Some eye me down

and to show them who’s boss

I lick my lips

and then theirs

and then my own once again

swallow your advice

and slide me something

I can sink my teeth into

 

-Saschia Johnson

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New England Cafes

Artists

The road winds in a manner

that seems as if I keep walking in circles

but there are very subtle differences

differences only a curious person would notice

like the flowers are a different shade of blue

or the bugs are crawling on their backs rather than their bellies

Makers of art wander on and off this road

collecting things

while others trudge trudge doing the same thing

over and over

Artists do at times get caught in the monotony of it all

because we are one of the others

however our path is different

it is of more depth

less conformity

(which might I add is much harder than it sounds)

Our satchels fill with old cocoons left behind by butterflies,

odd shaped rocks,

and twigs wrapped in twine

left as symbols of where we’ve been

or left to warn of places we dare not tread again

So it may seem as if we are constantly stuck

in the same ole rigamaroe but trust me

We are not.

-Saschia

 

(Yes, I wrote rigamaroe)

 

the unwritten character