Universal

An impelled white apparition in front of the fire emerged
as I stood with my new babe in arms,
Unable to know with reason
of fear or trust.

Presented with a mist upon my heart
I rebelled against the motion
clutching fast my daughter
unable to protect her against
either fear or trust.

A passenger has found us and has
taken a seat.

From this ethereal light,
we remained intact.

-Sonja J Phinney © 13-Mar-08

Liven it Up

Sugar-up the amplifier.

Sweeten up the ropes.

Tornado down the elevator.

Show me your hopes.



A scramble on the subway.

A ringing silenced dead.

Liven up the balcony

Before we go to bed.



Blast all those spectators

See how many you can craze.

Overload the sockets

In this giant maze.



Have you gotten your alphabet

all souped up in this mess?

Making that navy seal look like a girl scout

In a defiant green dress.



© Sonja J. Johnston 07-Mar-2012

In the Prison my Father Grew

In the prison that my father grew

The pillars were smooth.

Nothing relayed was nothing

Anyone knew.



Only from the edges the gravel aligned.

A fine scramble of security, of tumblers and barn swallows.

Birds squawked for their black horses in the cold moon-shine.

I was so far away.



In my jasmine fortress,

silvery-white lunaria left a mosaic impression.




The artifacts there grew.

Those I would later find.

Relatives who would profess to the intrigue and mystery.



Regret kept itself inside that lock;

trusted in the air of your breath.

I was young with that breath

upon the window observatory.



The monster I feared that the thunder might bring.

Of drunken smoke filled pockets,

destroyed and passed out.



Reveled in my adulthood.

Uncovering the cloth,

peeking at the edges,

a mirror burning my eyes.



Cold is the morning upon our fence posts.

Walking spirits we pretend to be in our waking.


I am your baby.

I come and go like puffs from

Someone's pipe.

Moments of undefined presence.



I will whisper again in your ear

Before too long...

Still here,

A piece of you.



© Sonja J. Johnston 06-Mar-2012

Having the Time

I used to march by the old freight line
and search around the stream for hours.
It used to be a care-free time.
We'd wait for April showers.

Rattle addle in the cool wet grass.
Rattle addle addle all day.
Rattle addle addle passing the time away.

I caught you falling down a drunken hill
Naked at the calling.
We slept along the old rail trail
A stag abruptly awakening.

Rattle addle in the cool wet grass.
Rattle addle addle all evening
A rattle addle addle journey of thy dealing.

Today we fix our houses
to up uphold the order
amid the chaos.
Fluff our pillows
and fine linens
as if a century has passed over us.
Hurdling over with a puff in the face
and a blow to the chin.

Rattle addle in the warm green grass
Rattle addle addle all day
Rattle addle addle passing the time away.

© 28 Feb 2012 Sonja J. Johnston 

No Escape

I am hunted for my solitude
and haunted by my solitude.
The prey of the mistrusted.
Mistreated for growing a new limb alone.
Nourished by daydreamed waters.
My solitude is never empty.

© 1987 Sonja Phinney

Those City Lights

Drops of dew in the trees from the street light, fake stars.
Glimmerings of pretended unknowings.
Walking the streets, early morning
Deep gatherings, reflections.
A different glow, real and falling to rest.

© 1987 Sonja Phinney

Shadow Key

You prepared the motion
of the snowflakes that
drift beneath the shutters.

Entrancing mind-wheels in a doorbell moon;
attack-dog street side of
summertime.

The aftermath trickled into a
hourglass, hand-blown;
falling to the other side.

Your feet pushed off the dock,
waving a good luck,
never see you again good-bye;
but you know, there's a
string attached to every boat
that has docked ashore.

© 06-May-2011 Sonja J. Johnston for Todd Sloane

Wreck Loose

Nature's palate tasted of burgundy and moss.

© 01 Feb 2012 Sonja J. Johnston

When Come True

Ambient Pride
Blind cities
Moving in constant fury.
A mountain seeking rainfall to help it
To a more stable platform.
Luggage carried,
Folded.
I too, folded neatly into a case.
The perfection once sought
Now perfectly a gleaming glass
In the sunlight.
I wish there were kids with slingshots
And pebbles to throw at me.

-Sonja J Phinney © 1992

Overlapped

Days passed.
We returned to the pathway traipsing familiar mud on our boots,
the sun warm on our sleeves.

Birds persisted with their chatter,
but the wreckage of time was there with its new identification.
Historians of space.

New lives overworking this painting.
Digging down to the purpose of events in repetition.

© Dec-1996 Sonja J. Phinney

Overlapping

We awake, yet remain haunted by dream.
Steps trail off just beyond the earthly.
Names buried beneath our ribs.

A vessel waits, fur lined.
There is nobody but this singing accompanying flashes of light.
The world spins round with white bodies dispersing like sand clouds
thirsting for roots.

We curl into the lap in this cup
Where edges overlap.

© 23-Jan-2008 Sonja J. Phinney

To the Drunk

When you say you have lost that direction,
Sit out in the breeze.
It is still inside you.

When you hunger what you have lost,
Look far into the distance.

What is captured in a snapshot of time can never be lost.
Upon our return, we are greeted into the house of wisdom’s essence
That has left its clothes in another room.

The time of external enchantment has left its paints by the water.
The seeker is drenched in the forest drinking through roots
Directing through this body.

© -Sonja J. Phinney(1986)

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. 

and settle in the comforts of the floorboards.


The velocity of it all.

An instant, inflated by breath.



We window towards it;

pull it up by the strings

and pluck 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

Hits

The night shines of filigree
among an attentive audience.

Here we are again, in this sleep-scape;
Constantly walking into the crowd of
embodied energy.

Charmed by my awakening,
I laugh at the dreamers as if their
actions towards me were ok.


“No, states my narrator, it is not ok
this is very much real to this man who
wants you.
Don’t let him in.”

I close my light and open my eyes
To the waking world
escaping the longings of a stranger.

-SJP 10-Sep-2007

Memory of the Lost

Are you mourning today?
Detached from the command of the road
Watching flowers and the breath
Leaving them?

Is the approach vacant of all of its physical nature where only shadows move?

Can you hear the whispers from the pictures upon the wall?

Where has your reflection gone?

In the chambers of every waking moment,
An imprint lingers.
Transgression of thoughts processed
Imprinted as words upon a page.

How simple to the fatal steps we grow nearer.
But how blessed in each day rising;
The remembrance of embraces keeps shining.
Off like a shot and we are swimming in our dreams;
Taking histories and shining them into the future's mission.

A flash of flowers and pictures on the wall;
In our essence in our presence we take to bed with us
Them all.


-Sonja 23-Aug-2006 (For John Chipura and Brendan Dolan, 911 WTC)