Lucy Rose Johns

CONTACT:
261 Buehler Ave.
Nekoosa, WI 54457
(715) 886-4370
lucyrose@wctc.net

BIO:

Lucy Catalog Poem

Master of Library Science from UW—Madison
Director of the Humke Elementary School Library Media Center
Wisconsin Poet Fellow
Times Review Christmas Artistic Contest Winner
WFoP Trophy Award Honorable Mention Winner
Contributor: HodgePodge, WFoP Calendar, The Poetry of Cold
Client of Tuesday Murray & Associates, Chapbook Publishers
Lifetime Girl Scout
Friend of the Cooperative Children's Book Center
Friend of the McMillan Public Library
Friend of the Charles & Joann Lester Library
Friend of the Thousand Islands Nature Center
Charter Member of the National Museum of the American Indian
Library of Congress Cardholder
Homeowner
Taxpayer
Registered voter
Hoper, pray-er, magic-bean-buyer
 

Poetry

Buehler Avenue Blues

The city department of public works is fixing the street in front of my
house. They sent over a construction crew of twenty-six. Ten to chat among
themselves. Four to chat with the neighbors, six to watch the weather, four
to direct traffic, and two to actually fix the street. The weather guys are
really important. If it rains, they have to call off the work. If it looks
like it might rain, they have to call off the work. If it gets too hot,
they have to call off the work. To date, they have ripped out my mailbox.
So I need to drive to the post office for my mail. They shut off the
electricity at will so I need to get a friend to tape my soap opera for me.
They closed the street so I have to park two blocks away and drag my garbage
can and recycle bin to another street. On the positive side, they have
given me the rare opportunity to experience aspects of the Old West from the
comfort of my living room; the Great Dust Bowl and the Grand Canyon. My
neighbor checks in on them hourly. It’s a good thing because one of the
layers of fill turned out to be the wrong kind of dirt. By the time they
found the right dirt, the frost had set in. This has put them another year
behind schedule. I won’t mind having them around another summer. Most of
them are stimulating conversationalists. One in particular watched me drag
two suitcases, a couple of boxes, and a garment bag the two blocks to where
I park my car. “I bet you’re goin’ outa town,” he said. If you need to
brave the ‘road closed’ signs of Buehler Avenue—beware. I am missing
several newspapers and a garbage can cover. My favorite old sneakers
disappeared in the muck right off my feet. Penny down the block, has been
searching for her toddler for over six hours. So—be careful out there.

Grandpa’s Lemon Drop Jar

My grandfather’s candy jar
Was a glass treasure chest
Of yellow candy jewels.
When I was especially good,
He would unearth the jar
From his secret hiding place.
His feeble liver-spotted hand
Shook at the weight of his booty.
Grabbing three at a time,
I’d stuff my mouth
To puff my cheeks like a chipmunk.
He’d tickle me
Making lemon juice overflow
The eaves trough of my mouth
To trickle down my chin
Dripping all over him.
He’d scold me for being messy,
Squeeze three more lemon drops
Into my sticky growing hand;
Tell me to quit bothering him.
I never smell lemons
Without wiping my chin.