Jerry T. Johnson, Featured

Jerry T. Johnson, Poet

will be featuring at:

Rick Eckerle’s Tue Night Live “Undead”

Lady Stardust

25 Ave. A & E. 2nd Street

East Village

New York, NY

Tuesday Night, January 21st

7pm – midnight (Music & Poetry see schedule below)

21+

Open Mic

No Cover

2 Drink Minimum – alcohol or non/alcohol

Donation Bucket passed – $2 or more

Schedule and Link to FB Event Page:

7:30-8:30.. Open Mic

8:30 ArchAngels

9:10..Feature Poet Jerry Johnson

9:30. Feature Songwriter Gary Van Miert

10:15 Feature Poet Prince McNally

10:30 Paul Jay

11pm Jeff Dennis

11:30 ArchAngels & ” Alphabet City Limits” Flyin Finale Squad ..

https://facebook.com/events/s/tues-nite-live-undead/516953228928807/?ti=icl

The Next 50 Days – #45 – Rejection Letters

Day #45 – Rejection Letters

It doesn’t feel good when you receive a rejection letter. It hurts more when you put your heart into the work. It’s like going to the jewelers, doing research on the best ring at the best price your little bit of money can buy, purchasing it, then arranging dinner at a fancy restaurant for two. You arrive, everything’s in place, she’s impressed, you bow, you present the ring, you pop the question…

…and she says, “No.”

That’s how receiving a rejection letter feels sometimes. It hurts more when you don’t know why. You don’t know if you work sucked or if it came close to being considered or was it somewhere in between.

This not a rant because I emphasize with publishers. They don’t have the money to staff up. I get it. Then again if my worked sucked I probably wouldn’t want to hear that feedback anyway.

Most times I brush a rejection off, like brushing a ladybug off my shoulder. Sometimes though, it does hurt. Nonetheless, like that rejected proposer, I close that ring box, finish my meal, kiss her goodnight and bid her farewell.

I keep the ring though. I take it to the jeweler, refine it and make it ready for the next time!

Never stop submitting your work because you received a rejection letter.

Afternoon Lunches at O’Hare

Part VI – Afternoon Lunches at O’Hare

From the Business Travel Log

The cavernous passageway between concourses L and H is vibrant with the movement of people. Business travelers, tourists, airport workers, TSAs, security officers and more flow in both directions. A few talk excitedly as they walk, others walk with earbuds plugged into their ears and some are like zombies, blanked faced, slowly trudging along, staring straight ahead.

I look out the tall, wide windows. Baggage trucks dart around airplanes and food trucks are raised up to aircraft loading doors by heavy duty cranes. Far away at the edge of the horizon, the silhouette of Chicago’s skyline stands tall.

I enjoy afternoon lunches at O’Hare. I remember the time I had meatloaf here in the same spot facing the same passageway and the same tall windows. That restaurant is gone. Another has taken its place and they do not serve meatloaf.

I was quite tired then and I’m quite tired now. Back then I wrote a poem titled “Meatloaf at the Airport.” Right now I’m writing this blog post. History does repeat itself, I think.

“May I have my check please?”

“Thanks for stopping by”, says my server 3 minutes later.

He leaves the check on my table. One sausage dog and a sparkling water for a total of $15.32 reads the long slip of paper.

“I’ll be right back”, he says taking my credIt card as he dashed to the register.

I leave the signed slip along with a tip on the table, grab my bags and I head towards my gate. The dog was good but I miss my meatloaf. I reminisce about the last time I ate here:

MEATLOAF AT THE AIRPORT

I’m eating a late lunch at an airport,

at a restaurant named after a notable, 

noted, well known chef

who deserves redundant adjectives

for the food is just that good.

Maybe it’s not the healthiest choice,

turkey meatloaf wrapped

in a thin slice of bacon,

mashed potatoes smothered

in a layer of light brown, turkey flavored gravy.

 

The meat loaf looked like it was gently placed

by gentle hands on top of the potatoes 

while thin cut, brown coat onion rings

were sprinkled over the layered stack, 

topped with one last spoon of gravy,

just a dripping from top to bottom.

I have prime seating, facing main concourses,

two in the afternoon, prime space,

prime time, prime people watching,

truly, it does take all kinds to make a world.

I peer at the large windows, 

gazing outside, I see several planes

parked at several gates and I think:

it’s gonna be a long ride.

#travellogforatravelblog

#jerryjohnsonblog jtjohnpoet.com

Part IV – Another Puddle Jumper

From the Business Travel Log

Part IV – Another Puddle Jumper

I slept right through takeoff. I raise my window flap and peep out at the clouds. This little regional jet is flying at a rather high altitude. I squirm and I grunt. Single seats are mounted along the left side of the craft. I have the benefit of both an aisle and a window at the same time but this seat is tight. I squeezed myself into it when I sat down.

I’m reminded of a flight I took from Westchester County Airport in White Plains, New York to the Bangor Airport in Bangor, Maine.

I was beat that evening in early December, 1993. I’d been traveling all over the northeast corridor between Boston and New York. After check-in I was looking forward to taking a nap on the plane. It was another puddle jumper. Worse, it was a prop job. Far worse, my seat was right over the tire well. Not only did it seem like my knees were up to my chin but there was a constant rumble. The tires rumbled and shook while it taxied to the runway and the tires rumbled and shook while we were in the air.

I turned to my left, laid my head against the window, closed my eyes and after snoozing for 2 or 3 minutes my eyes popped wide open. I turned to my right, tried to sleep again but the same thing happened again.

I sat up, pulled a folder, a writing tablet and a pen out of my backpack. I started working. There was a lot of work to do. An hour and a half later I was still working. We landed.

My hotel was on the airport grounds and it was connected to the terminal. I just grabbed my bags from baggage claim, took an escalator upstairs and walked across the sky bridge to my hotel.

“Welcome back Mr. Johnson”, said the hotel manager as he greeted, “would you like your usual pot of coffee?”

“Tonight will be a long night”, I said, “may I have two pots?”

“Certainly”, said the manager smiling.

My mind returns to the current moment. That was some memory, I say to myself. I look out my window . The clouds look so still from the window of just another puddle jumper.

#travellogforatravelblog

jerryjohnsonblog jtjohnpoet.com