April exits stage left,
bidding adieu, waving her
Sonoran brush of trade winds
and soft apricot. They dance
down walls to touch natural oak,
warming, welcoming, watching
every moment of our lives.
Outside, hours before midnight,
cottonwood trees sway.
They whisper of mad
May days to come,
while we will find comfort
in what we can control,
who we greet with love,
even as we ponder what
western treasures to
embrace and behold
in the desert lodge
of our Arizona abode.
I haven’t stopped in lately.
I won’t apologize for that.
I’ve had important things to do.
Pressing places to go.
Unexpected treats to devour.
Birds to stalk. Make sense?
I know you’re busy.
New flooring tomorrow?
But it’s Easter, right?
Like my grand entrance?
Anyway, just dropping by,
To shake your tree,
Add a little levity,
Which only I deliver,
And then I’m outta here,
Cause that is what I do best.
In the course of any life–whether you are a woodpecker, hummingbird or a species without wings–sometimes the best you can do is to find nourishment where you can … and just hang on.
Why do we gravitate toward
an idealized arrangement
of natural design and beauty,
heaping layer upon layer
of flat stones separated
from orderly round ones?
Do these walls stand
compressed in architectural
tribute to planned selection
over the stew of spontaneity?
Why does man’s comfort
with the squashing power
of conformity supersede
the messy-but-meaningful
marrow of our diverse story
… our diverse history?
Sunday through Monday–when desert winds blow freely or not at all–I prefer nature’s ever-present sweet, sunny and determined backyard faces to yesterday’s and today’s front-page disgraces.
In early March, while Glenn was away, Tom and I (along with an assist from St. Francis) cared for our friend’s lovable Newfoundland dogs–Katie and Mason–in their peaceful backyard.
This hollow ache persists
with every desperate breath,
every tear-stained cheek,
every filthy promise,
every shattered dream,
every shady severance.
As sorry, shallow sands
erode under our bare feet
and wash away at sea
with this tidal wave
of falsities and regrets,
we must link arms,
preserve those struggling
to tread treacherous waters,
and resolve together
to fight these shark attacks,
to keep on swimming.
When you’re living through a full-blown constitutional crisis–and feeling vulnerable–you need to find ways of coping and caring for the ones you love.
So, I bought two of these beaded rainbow wristbands from the Human Rights Campaign for Tom and me to wear.
We are wrist-banding together.
This is a symbolic gesture. I want the world to know that this gay couple isn’t going anywhere, though it is a period in the United States where some would prefer that those of us who are different would go away.
But I–we–remain visible.
As I write this blogpost, I realize it is number 500 … a true milestone for any writer.
When I began blogging in May 2018, I had no illusions of where it might lead.
I simply wanted to give my books and literary voice more room to grow, more visibility.
For that reason, I suppose it is fitting that today I choose to write about my gay identity and continue to exercise personal aspects of my voice … visibly.
In many respects, the life my husband and I lead is not all that different from any couple.
We shop for groceries together. Go to the gym together. Enjoy quiet moments and meals together. Love and nurture each other.
We do our best to support each other and our family members during highs and lows.
We spend time with our friends. They are young and old, straight and gay, black and white.
We love and respect them, and they love and respect us.
I think it’s accurate to say this about our friends: we enrich each other’s lives, no matter our skin color, religious beliefs, cultural perspectives, gender identities, or sexual orientations.
It is a personal jolt to realize–and read on trusted news sources each day–that our differences are under attack and being eroded in my home country … the country I still love.
I don’t think I’m depressed. But I am definitely sad and angry. Definitely grieving. Me and a boatload of others of all backgrounds and persuasions.
There are times when I want to scream from the top of a mountain. “This is my country, too. How dare you try to take that away from me!” But then I wonder, “Is anybody listening?”
So, I bring this here, instead and I type these words in blogpost number 500.
At any rate, thank you for joining me–possibly even enduring me at times–on this blogging journey since May 2018.
As long as I continue to feel I have something important and relevant to say (to shed light on the topics of the day … to celebrate a literary success or the latest Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performance … to pay tribute to those I love … to tell a funny story about our stray cat Poly … to observe and honor the beauty of nature … to share a vivid, meaningful memory about my childhood … or to pen a poem that is in need of artistic space and oxygen) you will find me here.
I hope you have been informed or entertained and will continue to tag along with me on this organic literary odyssey, wherever it may lead.
As I walked the treadmill at the gym this morning–on Abraham Lincoln’s two-hundred-sixteenth birthday–a weird, dark, and discomforting question swirled through my brain.
What if we–all the diverse people in this country, all the people of color, all the LGBTQ folks–were gone?
That fearful quandary led me to write this poem.
****
If We Were Gone
If we were gone,
you would miss
our minds, our hearts,
our beauty, our tenacity,
our sensitivity,
our sensibility,
our kindness, our love,
our compassion, our humor,
our leadership, our style,
our guidance, our wisdom,
our friendship, our support,
our joy, our pain, our truth,
our sun, our moon, our stars,
our books, our movies,
our artistry,
our contributions,
our serendipitous stories.
But, most of all, you
would miss us.
You would miss
the clarity and
strength of our
distinctive lives
and beautiful voices.
That would be
the greatest loss of all.
I thought I’d seen it all,
towering above,
connecting parched earth
to every blazing sky
with few monsoon
storms racing by.
But something sinister stirs,
threatening those who dare
to gaze high and pass my
lofty four-generation station
to seek aid and find shade.
I can’t bear the crash,
our tumbling down
never again
to stretch or grow
in our forever dreams.
Yet my weary branches ache,
because I suspect
without our canopy
of truth, strength, and justice
our best days together
will have come and gone.
***
According to the Arizona Forestry and Fire Management Agency, “Mr. Big” is the largest red gum eucalyptus in the U.S. Located in the picturesque desert confines of Boyce Thompson Arboretum in Superior, Arizona, he stands 117 feet tall with a circumference of 22 feet. He was planted here as a three-year-old sapling in 1926. A wooden fence and security camera surrounding the base of the tree are designed to discourage thoughtless people from carving their initials in the trunk. On February 6, 2025, I captured this photo of Mr. Big with my husband Tom during our Boyce Thompson visit. Mr. Big’s presence, threats to nature from global warming, and the upheaval in our country have inspired me to write this poem.
When I feel frayed
and afraid,
on days like these,
I dig deeper,
look closer,
to find beauty
in the corner
of the room.
Maybe this late bloomer
is a natural sign
that what I believe,
what I value most,
what I love,
what I hope for,
still exists on the edges,
beyond the madness,
even if it appears
later than I wish …
even if I have to search
high and low to find it.
Whatever it may reveal,
a swirl of pink possibilities
or profound regrets,
something unwritten
stirs and begins today.
I am the gardener,
watching petals fall away,
nurturing fractured earth,
tilling tired soil, waiting
impatiently for unlikely
roots to travel and grow,
wondering when tomorrow’s
blooms will unfold.
I will be there, careful
to grip true stems and
avoid piercing thorns
certain to draw blood
and test my resolve.
Mark Johnson Stories 