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  • Lorraine Johnson

[130] Holding Space

Thoughts seep out of pockets

tucked deeply out of sight

from the bustling of days

filled with many shiny lockets

and nights on soft landings

holding space to dream of rockets.

But seep they do—they break through

revealing moments both yellow and blue

showing up without a clue.

Where did they flee? I often wonder.

Between the stars lingering in the sky

waiting for them to pass them by

to a better place with nothing left behind?

Or rather deep in the bush,

across rocky paths,

wet with rains and bare soles

and empty stomachs and unknowns

and strangers lurking in the dark

—a dark that shines no stars,

nor gentle cast of the moon.

Rice was planted, cassava grew

and bananas ripened all in place,

left behind in the haste,

a life once lived

and never more

—to be embraced.

It's easier to look to stars

from soft landings we call ours

creating distance between the notes

while writing short anecdotes,

while waiting for yellow and blue

to show up again

—without a clue.


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