Almond Hued Amah Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

There is that someone who
slides, through the front door
leading to the screened veranda
to the oiled oak swing; as a day's
breeze frames her flowing tresses.
And those luscious youthful curves
pull prying eyes from across the lane
the aunties and grandmothers jump
to surround the men, and the boys
and the young girls from this public
display of passing nostalgic notions in
imaginary visions enhanced through the
morning's heat shimmering off of the moist
pavement. Juicy red plumes of ribbons laced
throughout that hair, a silhouette embracing the
sweet bitterness of baking chocolate, honey bees
and sensual scents; of honeysuckle. These views
hugging vapid dreams erasing life's meaningful
things, and the thoughts of Sunday's sermon.
The men and boys and women and girls
across the way avoid those matronly
touches just long enough to gape
again at the figure now sitting
comfortably in the shaded swing
and the corner breaching breeze
lifts the tuffs of that short skirts
hem to reveal the welcoming flair
of a thought's enticing nothings
those missing from the form
every pair of eyes are drawn to.
This vision, on the newly stretched
canvas back dropped in brick red, trimmed
in tiger oak and lit by a midmornings bright; a
vision drenched in sun ray's searching light that
empties all imagination through the sheer confusion
causing fabric foreign to any bible belt thought…
As the narrow sidewalks bordering the ever
warming blacktop buckle under the gazes
coming from the street's church going
couples, each extending glances up
towards the stately front porch
where IAM gently swung to and fro
by my lovely almond hued Amah