I Spend Too Much Time Looking at My Feet

You said you only likedĀ realĀ girls. I said, don’t ever call me that again.


We were, just two people who were not supposed to fall in love again.


I guess, I’m just misdirected

because I stumbled toward you.


And yes, I am drunk

And you are beautiful.


But in the morning, I’ll be sober

and you’ll still be beautiful.


Alison Marie Johnston, USA

Do Poems Get Tired of Dreaming?

When it snows,


We talk about weird things

the beauty of all girls

who are not in your bedroom

while we tell stories to your pillows.


Blue, you said, was the color of my eyes.


In between your pretty compliments,


What we do is fatal to the way we refuse to talk to the halcyon days on the mind.


I’ve got to find my way back to tell you why I chase snowflakes

& write poems on days it should have rained.


You race around my mind.


It’s not my fault, you’re there.


I cannot apologize for not waiting for you, first

or the first time I cried in front of you.


I fear I will never stop deserving your affection.


I just need to know why I don’t fit in your life anymore.


Alison Marie Johnston, USA

February, I’ll Miss You

with the wind. Standing upon the doorstep

of the foothills in the same way a tree

burns for no one in particular, every-

thing looks warmer from ten thousand feet. Trees


are strangers who pass by one another like

seasons who don’t say goodbye properly,

how autumn misses the leaves. For a tree, the

opposite of cold is what is west of


the Rocky Mountains, the gateway to the

free people. They talk to you, the way branches

protect their leaves until they are ready

to leave in a year without rain.


Alison Marie Johnston, USA