Graced

Here is the drum roll into ancestry.

The flowers are in their radiant dresses

Release a score of greeting.



The divine reflection as shone from

Our beloved teacher

Who in true commune radiated out to society.



The poet in his flying suit

Passed during the full moon as

We continued in the state of awake.



In this realization, we are burning

From this great mystical one

The heart is unable to escape.



© Nov 2010 -Sonja J Johnston for Art Willis (1936-2010)

Hypnos

Stone Lyre in hand,

 half-sleep under a voussoir,

 the spleen of the cave bellows,

Crystal temple of illusion.

In a thousand journeys

my eyes are still of stone

in need of waking,

holding only the inconsistent

glow of the moon.

Sonja J. Johnston  © 19-Oct-2010 (for Thomas Regiert)

Nest to Flight

From under your lashes frequencies 

mirroring yellow and cobalt blue let off into me. 

It then settled in the comforts of the floorboards.


The velocity of it all.

An instant, inflated by breath.



We windowed towards it;

pulled up by the strings

and plucked unknowingly.


It is not a problem,

But don’t let the outside

know.

We talk of velocity

and connection and all of

a sudden, all sparks

are squandered by a

jealousy that knows not

of what we are here for.

© 30-Oct-2010 -Sonja J Johnston

The Mill

One can hear a tea kettle whistling
and the sound of wooden rockers
on a round sewn rug.

Alive with cobwebs,
the morning breeze
makes them sway.

A sewn time piece
by piece in a circle.

She rubs the counter clockwise until
the shine is proud of it's reflection.

Mint leaves plucked and brought in,
one chewed.

Currents are plump and ready, eager, bobbing.

A single inchworm moves in the delight of the moment.

© Sonja J. Phinney 1989

Pull String

We were long lost companions that chanced upon fate and took it to the rocks and willows.
Carillons uncurled to form L's.

From the unexpected halls to a rock of hues so brilliantly alive.
My out-of-body experiences showed me your room, yet months later, under the stairs our souls were pulled.
Our collective masters left us there.

Naked in our own fires
Nicotine, sushi
Italian blood cream backyard Buddha with
hydro field buzz,
popsicle induced.

Land marked with an early tide to Cry, Cry Baby.
A Rune's unbroken charm, Gebo flit.
A gull's calling and swan's chasing wing.


Sticking our toes in it all...
Jingling gypsies
Waltzing in the weeping willows,
awakening heroic thinkers.

With a dash of Earl Grey we were licorice fingered prophets driving with the radio locked
to the moment when the breaks lock into 5 lanes backwards.

Fast we fell into the nearly October winds turning about; bringing what we had found from the sea,
curbside, graveside, and from the pockets
of curious salesmen.

©-Sonja J. Johnston 22-Jun-2010

Petulengro

Souler-gypsy
separating into an astral funk
On landslides of legends
With evidence,
summoning up shadows.

The dead meet during our gathering.
Their intentions, lost as if in a crowd.
I purse my lips at the outline
and listen as they pass.

Fragile dolls sound like foreign bells
and penetrate the room light.

There is fear in the
camera man who wants to
bleat like a lamb.

Oh travelers of the divide
like a flash in the trees.
Neither I, nor you are on this
road alone looking for that
which is unknown.

© Sonja J. Johnston 04-May-2010

Wrestle Pennsylvania

She is singing, he is roaring
in the confines of our house.
Rocking Daddy like a boat
hardly able to float
Across the lava pit.

Warrier and Princess
Rock Star and Engineer
With guitar and drum
And foot stomps in gear
The dance troupe arrives.

Heft the day
the children are at play
and work doesn't come easy
by light.

Forget about the carrots and broccoli
there is dessert in freezer and sugar
hidden in drawers,
Stashed like a pirate
and between clothes.

There needs to be some further swashbuckling
before it's time for bed
and let us not forget,
not without stories to fill their heads.

Prayers and lullabies
of foreign songs with
words to hang in
their minds
Retained for
the next lifetime.


© 05 Apr 2010 Sonja J. Johnston

Hot Creep

Another decomposing train;
You can detail the connections to the bone.
Working with this stone cold feeling,
Stove top pilot burning
dulled blue and overgrown.

We stand under the correctional downpour.
Heat lightening radiates.
You look like a hot creep all dripping like that
Standing there as the evening indicates.

I am slicked in your old coat
hand blown with enthusiasm
brought back to life from memories
re-found in the pocket,
conceived by light.

Ribbits let loose on the rocks
Telepathic currents in a small islet.
A breath and then another,
sweet radiance
Tried to unwrap it, but couldn't.

The match scratch echoes in the halls
of restless beginnings
and the pilot light rages
as beacons burn.

© 19-Jan-2010 Sonja J. Johnston

The Dream Narrator

The dream narrator
jumps in after I've confronted a spectator.

Boldly and suddenly there is a pronouncement
of where I am and who I am speaking with.


The narrator speaks as a teacher.


Then there is a pop,
like fire in glass.

I continue to laugh like
this is some sort of divine joke,
but I'm simply told that I need
to take this seriously.

This world I continue
to terrain is not just
a place in which to juggle
until the sky escapes me.

I wonder, what does it matter
that I am an entrant,
playing with the elements
of this narrated truth.

It's still quite impossible to get
others to follow me up the mountain where
I have seen the immaculate beauty of the
stone flowers.

© Jan 2010 Sonja J. Johnston