Three Poems by Matthew Johnson

 

Tears of a Harlequin  

 

  

In their hiding place on the outskirts of Gotham, 

In dishevelled hair and sweatpants, real, bona fide like, 

Harley cuddles close to Puddin’, with a feeling of awful gladness, 

Clinging to a dream of hope, which looms unhopefully. 

 

The Clown Prince of Crime,  

Ignoring Dollface after their night on the town, leaps from the couch,  

Deliciously jubilant, admiring the mayhem being presented on television: 

The Caped Crusader and Commissioner 

Carefully snipping bomb cords in the terminal at Gotham International. 

 

As quivering cameramen zoom in on the pandemonium, 

Harley, often unnoticed most nights, decides to whisper naughty ideas in Joker’s ear,  

But the villain, cruel as Hades imprisoning Persephone, 

And the loneliest soul outside of Wayne Manor, 

Yells and curses at Harley Quinn to leave his presence, and she slinks away, 

For being a distraction from the commotion in Gotham… 

 

 

 

 

It’s Always Winter in Gotham 

 

 

The windows have been kissed with frost. 

It had been snowing for hours, and the flakes had been falling 

In a swirling dance, like the motion of a ballerina.  

Through text messages, television ribbons, and automatic phone calls, 

The children of Gotham learn that there is no school today, 

And so they go out, voices of joy rising into the ether, like a chorus.  

The city waits for its children  

After the universe granted them a day for dreams and play. 

 

But for the coldest soul in Gotham,  

There is no day for dreams or play, even on snow days. 

Just his labour, just as it would be for the dog days of summer, 

And the embers of fall, and the showers of spring.  

Just labouring to restore the life and health of his precious Nora. 

 

 

 

 

The Batman Blues 

 

  

Like the parent who just dropped off 

The kids at college for the first semester, 

The robins have all left the coup, 

Or I guess in this case, the cave, 

And the house has never felt emptier. 

  

Mondays are the worst in any universe, 

Let alone, one where every Monday, 

Solomon Grundy is born again, 

Hankering for a fight, 

And his punches are never pulled. 

  

There’s truth in nursery rhymes, you know, 

And the batmobile did lose a wheel, 

So the Joker got away. 

  

I’m in love with the worst hometown…

Matthew Johnson is the author of the poetry collections, Shadow Folks and Soul Songs (Kelsay Books), Far from New York Star (NYQ Press), and Too Short to Box with God (Finishing Line Press). His poetry has appeared/forthcoming in The African American Review, Apple Valley Review, Heavy Feather Review, London Magazine, and elsewhere. A recipient of multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, as well as recognitions from Grand State University, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, and Sundress Publications, he is the managing editor of The Portrait of New England and the poetry editor of The Twin Bill. www.matthewjohnsonpoetry.com