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

Three-year-old Strike

You want to play it safe,
Move back to ghost.
Determined and remembering movement without body.

Shadows look down on us
And try to penetrate into dream.

Hushed singing through strands of baby hair,
Cares not for this side of physical.
Stubborn and with a look so matter of fact,
My child, my child is on a hunger strike.

© 21-Mar-08 Sonja J. Phinney

Sich Einstellen

Are we really as wise with our burdens as
We feel we can provide aim?
Form is a blanket
which covers our eyes.
Beyond this we are delving, delving
And diving away, away.
Opening the light
In preparation?
Are we prepared?

© 29-Nov-2007 Sonja J. Phinney

The Great Divide

Play me your song, that I long to hear

When time arrives, I’ll know.

Show me the moment I can place in view.

Give to me the smell of you.


Embolden upon this silver charm

Your powerful audacity.



While I'm still subject to this gravity

Throw off a little breeze.

Bring me to that place for a moment more

and leave it on my tongue.



How the stage it sets the image

and broadcasts it to

All eternity.


In that moment, I am ungrounded

Drawn electrically.

Screaming through agelessly

Reaching toward the spires.


It’s always late,

But it’s never over.

All will hear the

Soul weavers singing through.


Play me your song, so that I may hear.

As the time arrives, I’ll know.

Show me the moment I can place in view.

Give to me the smell of you.


Embolden upon the silver charm

Your powerful audacity.

With virtue it hums inside.




© 20-Mar-2012 Sonja J. Johnston (for Dennis J Greene 1964-2002)

Direct Voices

Moment whispers in the air
in this old 1859 farmhouse.

"Hi", "hello", "Hey there", "over here",
"So n ya"
Making my head turn.

Close to me.

"Hello" I respond
as I continue to work.

I must say, they are trying

As I lean into other side.

© Nov 2008 Sonja J. Johnston

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