Devil in a Bottle

Your words send a powerful sword through my spleen.
Did it make you feel important in a relative sense
as the surreal thrash and air pushing out penetrated?

Stranger’s eyes follow my bloody dance through a patch of grass.
Dreams stain as I am
unable to lift my feet out.
Wounded with heart hanging
Becoming petrified.



© 23-Apr-2012 Sonja J. Johnston

In The Old Farmhouse

Contained to this room,
we limit ourselves to talk.
Only the shadows stretched by a far away train pull at our backs,
edging us into the kitchen
where the water runs.

Hands squeak on the empty dishes and
Abandoned sparks flicker about.

Turning off the electromagnetics in recognition
Of future lifetimes.

© 1992 Sonja Phinney

Focused Third

That's just my third eye
Balled up in crystal.

You wondered even
when we first met
and told of the ships upon your walls.

Sometimes I touch the spirit of your future,
like a connected hand to a string.

Oh brother soul.
that penetrates my daily whispering grasp

Why? I ask as if I have nothing to do with you.
Why from such a distance?
Why as we are living different lives?

We are twinned, twined, billowing life as we throw about
Stabilities in the meantime.

While somewhere connected in time we are angels floating with ourselves
attached.

©- 20-Sep-2007 Sonja J. Phinney

From 1994

Walking in Sleep


Dying irritation,
Smells weaken,
producing sleep in a continual.
Moving, but not out.
The chances were forewarned.
Light is static and stings.
Outside working, out of the otherside of mourning
Can see no more of the elsewhere.

© 1994 Sonja J. Phinney



Worms

Early, early
bluebirds,
Sunny blue
I am this fragile and small blueness
with wounded shoulders and exhausted heart
Flying back to a rock above the waterfalls at Awosting.
This rock has worn different energies over the seasons.
It has been violated and sucked of it's energies.
It's shine, disrupted by those desperate.
I flutter about and sing alone, twee, twee.
The wind rushes, I hide my head, bring up my feet and wait
for the passing.

© 1994 Sonja J. Phinney


A Small Thing


Teeterd a plaything
back and forth.
Melody scampering
stumbling innocence
Voices entrapped
snared into new cells.
An instant, timeless in its ring
A forelorn thing.

© 1994 Sonja J. Phinney

She asked if I
were indeed
Peter Pan.
"Little Tink", I said
"Hold fast to your dreams."

© 1994 Sonja J. Phinney



Swimming over
as my final day remembers that it must
move on.
Winds skirt.
The warmth of the flowers beckon a memory.

© 1994 Sonja J. Phinney