Monday, September 16, 2013
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
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
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
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
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
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