Johanna Boal lives in Beverley, East Yorkshire, England and work for the local council as a librarian. She writes poetry and children’s stories. She is a published poet in anthologies, online and read over the radio. Her children’s book was long listed in the Sunday Times Newspaper and is currently been reviewed.She is a member of the Poetry Society and Society Of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.
Am I Considered Lord of Sacred Land?
I live here, this coastline, crumbling clay.
Unkempt and muddy,
You have to wash your trousers if you climb me.
No geologist, archaeologist or even nesting birds come near
Warning signs- don’t go too near the edge,
Scared out of your wits, immense swellings of earth pile at my feet
Well actually I overheard,
Someone call them buttresses.
Does that mean I’m really important?
Even though I’m not beautiful
Like the cliffs of Moher, or some sheer cliffs in the Andes.
My sand is not golden, but grey
Well, as for the water, I mean sea,
It washes up those boulders, which once dropped off me.
Can you visualise it, somewhere in the Himalayas,
Two Buddhist monks, wearing orange, a great contrast on cliffs
With mobile phones sitting on yours truly, if I am decaying
After clay is slate, then chalk. I can’t quite remember the order,
But it is soft stone before hard diamond,
That’s prized, hallowed ground.
Aren’t Mountains Great
You make me
Want to run
Up because you’re
Large, small, smooth,
Jagged and rocky
Rounded in steep
Rolling green, grey
And brown. Walls,
Trees, heathers, moss,
Fields, nests. And
From the top
Are streams, rivers?
Waterfalls who pass
Over a close
Soul with magic
Feelings? Of spiders,
Slugs, rabbits, sheep,
Cows and more
All climbing to
The top, to
See what else
Is up there
Looming against the
Brilliant unlimited sky.
Five Oaks in a Field in East Yorkshire
The way, occupied with workmen
Workers, who or will not postpone.
I didn’t stop; when I drove pass you in a field
But I captured enough, I saw, I knew
Planted in a line, against the wide-opened space of green and blue
Looking like guards, controlling a field
Trudging slowly in time,
Not surprising, you didn’t want to leave?
Striking in full leaf with so many
Acorns, your workforce
A forest of oak takes such a long time to grow.
Like Trees in winter
As we emerge, we can see them.
Some come together, hunkering down
Many are dispersed on their own,
Dark and hazy in their remoteness,
Trunks and branches appear, they seem aloof,
In earnest we gaze at them.
Poverty-stricken nests uncovered, wild and low
But somehow, attention-grabbing features
In invested fields,
In busy cities on golden pavements
Like shadows, time cut short,
Homeless people at home with this?