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.
In the old days (the pre-Covid days)–just five years ago this week–I hawked my books with my husband by my side at a local author book fair at the Scottsdale Public Library.
We didn’t know about the dark days ahead. Holed up in our cozy condo. Wondering if we and our closest family and friends would survive. Wondering if the race to create a viable vaccine might save us.
Fortunately, science did produce a vaccine that saved lives (for those of us who had the gumption to protect ourselves and others).
We did survive and Tom and I have gone on to create new chapters at the library … him leading several successful film series; me guiding those intent upon writing their own memoirs.
Strangely, those Covid years feel quaint now as our nation disintegrates daily. Tom and I cling to one other, as our nation turns a blind eye toward anyone who is different.
Yes, we have many friends and family who love us. But, to put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe. This experience of living in 2025 in the United States (we aren’t really united) has cued old tapes in my psyche that remind me that–once again–I am living in a straight, white world of shallow masculinity.
I will keep trudging along. Loving my husband. Guiding my adult sons. Speaking my mind. Telling my stories. Holding my closest friends close. Giving to organizations that might make a difference. Advocating for those less fortunate. Donating my time, talents, and voice to the Scottsdale Public Library and the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Most of all–like many of you–I just need to keep breathing today. And, for tomorrow and the next day, I need to save any reserves of energy and sanity I have to fight the good fight.
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.
Hello Yellow, how good of you
to make an appearance before
Santa and his reindeer land.
I’ve missed you and your
colorful red and orange cousins,
your crunchy-yet-sunny
disposition, your earthly scent
as you hang, glide and tumble
to be collected by the magical
metallic click and swoosh of
yesterday’s backyard garden
rake. Didn’t we once gather
with your friends in a pile or
several for one last heavenly
autumnal celebration before
carols and flurries cascaded and
winter’s drifts and desolation
froze us in our tracks?
Now I remember us together,
surviving in a simpler, more
defined, orderly civilization.
You don’t need to worry.
As long as I am here, you
and your seasonal friends
will remain alive, constant,
distinguishable, and everlasting
… at least in my imagination.
When they appear side-by-side
on the same written page,
cope and hope may appear
to be close cousins.
In truth, these four-letter words
on the winding highway of life
are miles apart emotionally.
As Thanksgiving approaches,
on another sun-swept
Sonoran November day,
I realize I reside
somewhere in between
the harsh, heavy realities of c
and the lofty prospects of h.
Maybe the best I can do
in my numbness
is to stand tall and
keep breathing,
to extend my gifts
to those I love,
trust, and respect,
while protecting
the passions and ideals
in the strands of my DNA
from greedy, heedless fools
in this broken, foreign land.
There is no deep discount
for you to collect,
no razzmatazz reward
or ragged punch card
for you to accrue,
no extra credit
for you to capture
from the check-out lane,
no savings to realize
on the way out the door.
It is just these twinkling
blue lights of hope
that exist to frame
our fleeting worldview,
that implore us all
to imagine better possibilities,
that remind us
if we act now
to salvage our future freedom,
if we move forward
to heal from the past,
we may still be able
to rescue our civilization
from the jaws of decay.
9:10 a.m. yoga mantra:
“When in doubt,
exhale it out.”
Without our breath,
and our ability
to let go of the negativity
in the world,
we have nothing.
6:56 p.m. sunset capture:
“Inhale the magic,
exhale the tragic.”
Without our compass,
and our agility
to embrace the possibilities
on the horizon,
we have lost all hope.
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
In this world of perpetual social upheaval, being who I am-openly gay–isn’t always easy. But I persist.
I decided more than twenty-five years ago that coming out was the only healthy way to live.
With the assistance of two amazing therapists (thank you, Barry and Valerie!) and the love of a small circle of friends and family, I discovered that authenticity was my way out of denial, depression, and anxiety.
Over the years, I’ve written frequently on this topic in my books and here in my blog. Today, on National Coming Out Day in the United States, I’m here to remind you once again that I am a proud gay man.
This one aspect of my identity–the fact that I am attracted to the same sex and married happily to another man–certainly defines the way I see the world. It gives me compassion and empathy for others who are different … no matter their skin color, religious beliefs, economic status, or capabilities.
All my life, I have been protective of those who are disenfranchised and less fortunate. I came from a modest background and have survived personal and family hardships.
As a teenager and young man, I didn’t understand or love myself, but now that I do I feel it is my obligation to remain visible. To pave the way for queer teens and adults who may not yet feel comfortable enough to come out.
In 2023, I think most Americans are supportive of their gay friends, family members, and neighbors. Of course, there is a vocal minority that would prefer we don’t exist. I have no control over their beliefs.
No doubt, a handful of haters will be demonstrating at the end of the Phoenix Pride Parade route on October 22, when I sing and march with my friends in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
But they will be overshadowed by the thousands of LGBTQ supporters–gay and straight–who will line the parade route with their parents and children, cheer, and wave their rainbow flags.
We are a country that was founded on the notion of “liberty and justice for all.” At times, we have failed miserably at fulfilling our mission as a democratic society.
But I’m not ready to give up. I still have hope–as a sixty-six-year-old gay man, husband, father, brother, writer, singer, friend, neighbor, voter, and citizen of the United States–that we will find our way out of the political divisiveness that exists.
I’m not sure how we’ll get there, but today–and everyday–all of us who are different must continue to come out, be ourselves, love each other, and remind the world that LGBTQ citizens are valuable, kind, contributing, and responsible Americans. We will not be denied.
On a regular basis, all of us encounter unexpected small and large obstacles.
One day, they may be as fixable as a “low tire pressure” warning light that illuminates on the dashboard.
The next, something far more unimaginable, unexplainable and unrepairable. Like learning of the apparent suicide of a forty-three-year-old friend, who seemed to embody the definition of vitality.
It was simple to stop at Discount Tire to ask an attendant to increase the air pressure in our tires. (The cooler desert temperatures must have deflated them.)
It will take much longer–time, space, and reflection–for Tom and me to process Chad’s demise.
I’ve often thought that resiliency is one of the most important human characteristics to cultivate.
It is our ability to cope, process, manage, and emote our way through or around life’s setbacks that defines our longevity. This latest loss confirms my belief.
These observations surfaced this morning during a walk in the park in my community. At Chaparral Park in Scottsdale, Arizona to be precise.
My husband and I had just finished our yoga class. Afterwards, he wanted to lift a few weights in the gym.
I opted for stretching my legs on my own under a few puffy clouds that dotted Arizona’s wide-open October sky.
Near the midpoint of my walk a fit couple jogged up as I waited for the light to turn green at Chaparral and Hayden roads. One of them admired my shirt.
“You must be in the medical profession,” he gestured toward the beating heart I wore proudly.
“No, I’m a heart attack survivor,” I explained. “I helped raise money for the American Heart Association.”
They smiled and wished me well. Then, they dashed off when the WALK sign turned white.
It was a simple exchange, a reminder of a trauma I experienced and wrote about which now feels way off in the rearview mirror.
But those few sentences with two sympathetic strangers infused me with a renewed appreciation for my personal resiliency.
No doubt, it’s a quality I observed in my mother, a saver and survivor. She always described herself as a child of the Depression.
It’s also a trait I began to mine in my thirties after my divorce. A strength I’ve fine-tuned on countless treadmills since suffering a mild heart attack six-plus years ago on my sixtieth birthday.
I have no regrets regarding my friendship with Chad, but I wish he would have called Tom or me before he made his worst and most irreversible decision.
I would have told him that while life is no walk in the park, it is always worth the fight. To find a skilled therapist. To dig deep on the darkest days. To survive the pain. To accept our losses.
To embrace each and every day we are granted. To reach out for love and hope. To live to see tomorrow.
Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I enjoy talking about the discipline of writing. Honestly, it doesn’t happen that often. But when it does, it’s generally in the course of an ordinary day.
For instance, last Friday–on the way out the door of the gym I frequent–I stopped to talk with the manager. He asked me about my latest writing project for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
“It’s fun,” I told him. But then I went on to explain that creating a full-blown musical libretto is also draining. Such is the case for anything that pushes us beyond our comfort zones.
What does writing a libretto feel like? Well, I’ve never been a clothing designer or tailor. But it’s as if I’m sorting through a world of potential fabrics … selecting the right one … weaving it into a fictionalized story with smart dialogue and an emotional arc … and stitching it to music (which the chorus’ artistic director has selected).
Back near the entrance to the gym, another person joined the conversation. It morphed quickly into a discussion about the motivations and pitfalls of writing. She–a technical writer, who has dreamed about writing a childrens’ book–asked me about my creative commitment and impulses.
That’s when I felt my energy swell as I became creative mentor and cheerleader on the fly. I told her writing is like any discipline–exercise, yoga, boxing, for instance.
I told her I write something nearly every day. That–strangely–after my mother died ten years ago, a new door opened. I decided to take a leap. To write stories that were important to me, not some corporation.
Along the way–I told her–I discovered my true calling as an independent writer. It’s something I’m passionate about, though sometimes the creative process can be lonely.
I told her you have to make it a priority. You have to make the time for it. I told her that the childrens’ book she wanted to write was inside her, waiting to be written.
As I left the gym and walked to my car in the heat of the desert sun, I felt happy … content in the knowledge that I had encouraged one other person to step beyond their creative comfort zone.
***
In this world of raging fires, heat waves, social upheaval, and constant noise produced by snake oil salesmen, I believe the best thing we can do is to put down our phones and turn off our TVs more often.
To take back our lives. To talk with one another face to face–or at least voice to voice. To offer encouragement when opportunities present themselves. To write and read more books and poetry. To make time and room for practices and people who make our hearts sing.
If we do, maybe we can begin to restitch the underlying fabric of our society … one thread at a time.
Mark Johnson Stories 