"mathis" poems
Johnny Mathis was playing
On your Isuzu Rodeo radio
I was on the hood of your car
In your arms
Your lips pressed so tenderly against
Mine
I looked at you and we both looked up
And there a shooting star was to greet us and
As Johnny Mathis’ Sweet voice was singing
“ the last time I felt like this I was falling in love...”
I knew, this was the first time I had felt like this and I was falling in love
With you
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.
For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!
Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.
Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.
So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.
Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
How unworthy is my soul of the
abundance of blessing that have
been bestowed upon it?
How wretched I have been in my
dealings and thinking when I am
unwrapping the package that engulfs
myself like parchment paper.
Instead of gently peeling away my
nuances so that the mixture of my
true meaning can be exposed, I
choose to rip open that paper
relentlessly letting the flavors
and juices escape only to be
lost forever.
I am so reckless!
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
By Joanne Mathis
I submerged into this liquid that was
neither hot nor cold. I knew it was liquid
because I could hear the squishy sound
it made as I traveled through it.
When my eyes opened all I could see was
a colorless kaleidoscope.
I could not find myself no matter how hard
I tried. The more I tried the further
into the liquid I submerged.
I was able to stop and stood still.
At that moment I realized my hands
were up around my head. As I could
not feel anything, I envisioned
myself banging my head with my fists.
The weight of the liquid began to go into
submission and disappear. I fell freely
to the bottom, waiting for the liquid to thicken again.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
I sit in a bar
with Miss Pinkie;
her son, who is a copper,
is getting the drinks.
She looks at me
and says:
we are just friends
if he asks
(as if I was going
to tell him
I was rogering his mother)
and don't talk politics
or say you write poetry.
I will be
the perfect gentleman,
I reply.
Her son comes
with the drinks:
a whiskey for his mother,
a beer for me
and a lemonade
for himself;
he sits down
and gazes at me.
So, Benedict,
what do you do
for a living?
I'm a nurse,
I work with your mum.
He looks at Miss Pinkie,
then at me.
What do you do?
I ask,
giving him
the Mr Innocence stare.
I'm a police officer;
aiming for C.I.D.
He sits upright
in the chair,
brushing a hand
over his dark hair.
What do you think
of the IRA?
Miss Pinkie stares at me
as if I'd let wind go in public.
They're a murderous lot,
he says;
you don't
support them
do you?
No, I don't support them;
I agree with their objectives,
but not their methods
of achieving
those objectives.
He looks at Miss Pinkie
and she looks at us both
as if she didn't know
who we were.
Both their objectives
and methods
are objectionable.
He takes a sip
of his lemonade
as if the very words
were distasteful
in his mouth;
I sip my beer;
his mother gulps
her whiskey.
What do you do
when you're not
being a nurse
and involved in
“leftist” politics?
I listen to music:
Wagner, Delius and Mahler,
and that crowd.
High-Brow stuff;
I like Johnny Mathis myself.
He wears a smug expression
and looks at his mother;
she looks at her glass.
What else do you do
apart from listening to music?
he asks.
I write poems
and read books.
You're not a queer
are you?
He stares at me
suspiciously,
then looks
at his mother.
Would I be
with your mum
if I were?
Miss Pinkie looks at me;
her blue eyes
are large as a cow's.
What do you mean?
he says.
Another drink?
I say,
another lemonade?
He means,
Miss Pinkie says,
we're good friends,
and he's not
that way inclined.
He stares at me
with a hard glare,
but I don't mind.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
By Joanne Mathis
No! It's not menopause, it's you.
I'm just not strong enough to let
you know I've had it and I'm not
having it!
For years you've been
touching me in a way that
makes my skin crawl. I'm not
feeling it!
Love is in my change of life
and your not changing it!
******* my teeth and rolling
my eyes, you totally ignore.
I have never uttered those three
magic words and I'm just not
saying it!
I left you because I did not
want my son to be affected by it!
Then I got back with you because
my son misses it!
**** it! I'm not having it anymore!
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:37 AM UTC
Is it not ironic that millions and millions of American
heterosexual teenagers more than over a half century
ago fell in love under the spell of Johnny Mathis's
love songs? I was one of them, and today I begin each
day listening to him sing his magical songs on YouTube
while I drink two cups of coffee with milk (ratio: 1: 1)
to wake up. I, like most of you, have spent much of
my free time listening to enchanting love songs. Someone
once asked me if I had a hobby. I paused for a few
moments, then replied, ""Yes, I do have a hobby. My
hobby is collecting beauty--beautiful music, beautiful
memories, beautiful sunsets, and the like." I think the
best single singer of my lifetime, male or female, is
Johnny Mathis, who is still alive and performing as
I write this. Remember "Chances Are," "The Twelth
of Never," "Wonderful, Wonderful" among countless
others? The irony of which I spoke? Johnny is gay.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 1:00 PM UTC