Little Jah Jah Reed

Little Jah Jah Reed

(-for Jah Jah Reed)

Little Jah Jah Reed like to
Shoot rifle with me.

Like to feel big cause he is the
Smallest and the youngest here.

Jah Jah throws stones at toads
And wood critters.

He want to be big man.
Bigger than his friends.

Jah Jah talks with big words
Too few in the crowded city.

He is here in the tree thunder,
Abandoned from buildings and threatening people.

He listens very carefully and learns in steps
Jah Jah play it cool around others.

He want to be big man
In his tiny shoes.

© 1983 Sonja J. Phinney

Getting Out Of It

Give me some time,
so I can recover.
Send me a sign,
so I can take cover.

I've been overdressed
and am feeling compressed.

Oh, I've spun the wheel
and it's grinding sound
has me running to the other side of town.

It's driving voice is now just a hum
shadowed by a thumping noise.

Call out the boys
with mud on their boots.
Look for the new recruits
with their safety suits.

Give me some time,
so I can recover.

Lend me a hand.
Sew me some eyes.
Get me out of this despise.

© -Sonja J Johnston 26-Jan-2013

In the Grin of It's Half Empty Face

It's time to sail the trade winds
and recover the wreckage from the tide.

In the center of the square, people are swimming.
Children are playing on streets nearby.

Bleeding is the moon on its axis;
You can feel the chill in the grin of it's half empty face.

© 24-Apr-2012 Sonja J. Johnston

Cold Case

It was a cold case from Milwaukee
that got them all talking sideways to Sunday.
He was let loose, with charcoal grin.

Shock was the look and feel of the townies;
as if a large, vicious attack dog was loudly approaching
to do everyone in.

You could almost hear their veins freeze.

Trash Can Man or Manson just leaning over the shoulder,
peeping into your soul.
A moment later, you would be manipulated into the unreal.

Life portraying a series of images where you remain the viewer.
Dream-like, waiting for the Faces of Death narrator to speak.

The grin repeats its dirty broadcast
over and over;
factory generated with slow motion replay.
Buried beneath the cold, cold ground, its remains.

Washing in a shower of ice.
I've got my dead Daddy's trousers
Dead Daddy's trousers
Got my dead Daddy's trousers to put on.

You could hear our veins freeze of mortal movement.
Stopping the blood to our hearts.

On the loose like Trash Can Man.
A dream with Faces of Death narration.

There's ice in my shower
and I've my dead Daddy's trousers
Got my dead Daddy's trousers to put on.

And I feel like a victim,
but it doesn't seem to matter.
We all live like strangers caught within
the confines of his charcoal grin.

© Sonja J. Johnston 29-Oct 2013

Of Grey Matter

With grey skies between us,
Giant winds give rise.
The striking stone's spark
rolling tumbleweeds
across Goblin Valley.

Dust around my fancy.
Dust along side of me.
With the grey sky between us,
Giant winds give rise.

©-Sonja J. Johnston 16-Nov 2012

Of Wind and Water

When you say you have lost that direction,
Sit out in the breeze.

What is captured in a snapshot,
Can never be lost.

If you hunger for the past,
Look into the distance.

Upon returning, you will be greeted in wisdom’s essence,
your clothing left in another room.

The external leaves its paints by the water
And reflects through the prayer body.

© 1986 Sonja J. Phinney

Shaman Leading Us To Water

We stood ankle deep wearing nothing but the lake winds;

kissing with mint leaves between our lips.

The reflective self shed of other earthy tones.

For a moment, nature mirrored.

A grass ring, shore glass,

an antique book from the hands of the makeshift shaman.

Days made sacred by connective wisdom.

Duality divining as if pronounced from a book

Evoking the flicker.

We were caught in the footage burnt forever into our blood.



© Sonja J Johnston 16 Sep 2013 for Chris

Shadow-hand in Winter

We head upstairs and crawl into bed
on this February night.
It is as cold as as a well
in this old farmhouse.

The sleeping genius at three
already occupies the left side
as we shiver ourselves up close,
under cover.

A sudden shadow-hand rises up between she and I
as I grab your hand in
desperation, demandingly stating that
it is yours I have grasped tightly in mine.

A woman's hand drifts up and in a
moment, is lost to the ethers.
Forever to be imprinted in my mind,
spaded female hand.

Like a watch dog, you remain awake
ready to kill a robber.
I try to ease you to the fact that
you can not kill what is already dead.

Almost a year later,
I catch myself, wanting you to
Hold onto my hand.
It's the warmth here beside me,
I will always understand.

Nuzzle me close little one,
keep me warm beside you.
These winter nights can bring in
more than the winter winds
as we decorate to celebrate
the coming of Jesus.

We aren't the only ones
dashing through this house
Ah, but a bit of tea will warm
my blood a bit more by the
fire of our family together.

© Dec-08 Sonja J. Johnston

Welcome To This Man House

Welcome to this man house.
Welcome to this manhole operation.
Welcome to this man house.

Winter's moving across the fields.
You are reading me;
feeding me as fires glow.

Writing songs from old photographs
and worn-out paths.
Within reach we are on the breach.

Come whistle in the light of sound
Because what matters is what we've found
Settle in the vines and stretch.

Come find the spark that says here
Because it is now within our ears
And don't forget tomorrow will be wasted.

Welcome to this man house.
Welcome to this manhole operation.
Welcome to this man house.



© Sonja J. Johnston 04-Sept-2013

It's Easy To See

From above, it's easy to see

As our magnets pull down below.
We find ourselves in the valley of radiant gongs
Riding the gamma waves
blending and painting
with our light.

The preordained rush in the
wind between us draws
its lunar lips to our cups.

It was our calling to touch
and pull away our sails
into the dark gardens
and past that which was familiar.

But we cried for the wings once
born into our clouded memories.

We cried and continue to cry
as we draw upon the cellophane on top
of black waxed boards.
Peeling away and looking beneath.

From above, it's easy to see.
From below, we are like swallows
communicating to each other.

Connections nest and hover.
Magnetic is our sleep.
The magnetism never wears.
Yet we are diving continually into
absorbed confines, straight-jacketing
the waves that form.

Surfing into the thrust of
the Magellanic Clouds.

© -Sonja J Johnston 05-Jul-2013

Restless Rush

They dismantled the noise as not to be heard by the edges sharpened, restless rush.
The age was dark.

The meadow, it was dark and steady.
The answers fell off.

Fell off the restless boundary.
Light lanterned down, nudging the soul loose.
Shells, pulled.
Not everything was voiced.
Voice wasn't easy, but we were listening.

The hard air found its place while we tried to keep it here in the dew of our morning's waking.
Blood flowed quietly.
Flowers from the garden wall ascended as the light fixed upon the ground unearthed and in focus.
Sometimes it takes two to witness.
Sometimes we need to burn alone.
Finger-hulls, piano rains.
We are left wet despite of the sun.

© -Sonja J. Johnston 26-May-2013

Pearls and Silver II

I watched the moon drop
And fell out of bed.
Got up, ran outside
and was chased instead by
Several lights beaming in abstract motion.

There I was
running nude without abandon
through the shadows
finding refuge back behind a locked door.

Pervading knocks emitting shallow sounds
Abating and resolute movements
Through the backside of the house.


And so it goes
My dream’s broken open
and has found a way
To make another print
As pearls
Fall upon silver.

You showed up like a wolf,
Like a gypsy
and I greeted you starkly.

My heart still in my head.


We walked to a room
Full of pretties and
Boas in which to cover
and all kinds of glitters to dress.
I zipped up my side.

You inclined upon the mistress
and to the kitchen you followed
She showed you the way to her money jar.

And so it goes
My dream’s broken open
Time found a way
To make another print.

Pearls upon a silver stage
Lights flicker from the balcony.

Caught up in this Gatsby house
Hunting through rooms
in search of my words
for the Castilian reading.

Our performance
Upon this silver stage

Pearls drop down
Like giant moons
collapsing
Upon the floor.

Pioneering and vagabonding our way
Circling like crows
Watching spots of sun
As they moved about
Under the canopied branches.


And so it goes
We have found the way
To make another print
An impression taking form
upon the canvas.
We have broken open.

© Sonja J. Johnston 01 May 2013

Tombo y Tembo

I've a pencil
in my pocket
ready to draw
and a mirror
to catch the reflection
the white reflection
of your form.

The floor and walls change
into spirits.
They're all moving,
changing in time.

Tombo flitters,
dragonfly.
Tembo stomps
Elephant steps.

Forward balance
in and out of bound.
We turned the room
into elegant bloom.

It's just a sketch,
a concert,
a lost shadow
caught on tape.

I have a pencil
in my pocket
in my pocket
ready to draw
and a mirror
to catch the reflection.
Tombo y Tembo.

Clay and charcoal
turn and congregate
as you silently postulate
floodgate into elegant bloom.

©-Sonja J. Johnston 12-Apr-2013

Soul-Splitting

I set my soul loose for our love.
Our histories lifted to the clouds.
Shells of our selves were then acknowledged
Through the halls and crowds.

They watched the book open
And while the pages were written,
There was a hiccup and a chortle,
A wheeze and a grin.

We took it on and threw it out
Reflecting our energies to
Beggars and old women.

Now we are passengers here
Riding through smoke rings
Throwing coal and blowing steam
Through the windows.

I will always remember that day
blue-eyed in perfect enzo.

Getting my toes caught up in mud
And my mind full of love.

Bitten by the magic of it all
Even with a misguided Shaman leading us to water;
Angels were hovering all around,
Waiting in youthful tender.

Where are we now
As two souls look down?

I see them some days through the willows
Laughing like Greek lovers.

© 02-Apr-2007 Sonja J. Phinney (for Chris)

Systemic

A drunken user now stares at your
foreign shape,
but is unable to conjure
up anything.

Ozone to Stone.
He was dispatched back to
Babs after failing to meet
the demands of life outside
the brothel.

Life's wardrobe dressed itself
while you climbed back into the
womb of sorrows.

God knows, we tried to shine the
light in that dark place.

© 11-May-2011 Sonja J. Johnston

Slow Going

Take it with ease
A cool breeze.

Fingers touch on top of rock
No sugar
Taste of Wood
And past remembrances.

My feet held in a direction
before me here.

Jump rope steady.

A swing of the hand
And glance of the eye,
Subtle in understanding.
Born with a crescent lip.

Would you taste the direction?
And take it past.

I'm just turning the flame around

Slow going.

© 1988 Sonja J. Phinney (for Koyo Marrow)

Goodbye Lover

My mind can throw
Further than the stone
Leave my head alone.

When asked at night,
Can see
Further than the light.
You can go on home now.
It's ok to be alone.

It's over
Goodby lover
Run through the branches
and live again.

Let go
Go on home
It's better to live alone

And remember this too is love.

© 1989 Sonja J. Phinney

Rig Semba

Fractured glass beneath my feet.
All these trees aren't as sullen as they seem.

Shaken by the sun
with half burnt ash.
Off the cuff and into my waking hour.

Into these woods let time erase all that has set to erode.
I wait to taste the feast and am left with salt in my hair.

The messenger brings 10,000 chords and casts them out
Into each life,
each destiny.

A surveyor in the foreground steps.
Chanting out in motion of the reflective charge.

One hand swings
while the other hand slaps.
One branch sways
while another branch snaps.

Hiking the mountain
while the Buddha laughs.

© -Sonja J. Johnston 26-Feb-2013

Coney's Centaur

The waves
jump up to hug us
like hundreds of immigrants
approaching the fairgrounds of
Coney Island.

Underwater Centaur
splashes traces,
delivered embraces.


Distant stars shoot
off above an unresponsive
city.

The big illusion clouds us.

Every day, the ocean washing to shore.

© -Sonja J. Johnston 24-Feb-2013

Factory Work

We are calloused puppets of trade
in this factory life
having been victimized.
One can hear harrowing clicks
and cries.

Stumbling in proportion to dogs fighting,
a low tonal growl.

Work begins at six AM.
as thunder fills the city.

A washing of the disabled.
Ambling like a turbine
only a bit off sync.

Wings are bitten at the shoulders.
Feet tip to the uncontrollable
sequences of reflection.

© 1984 Sonja J. Phinney