Undergrowth

Farther than my earthly heart could carry
I fit pieces through the small links.

We had an audience looking our way,
Talking and walking away.
They knew they wanted to feel it,
But laughed and smoked it off instead.

Small pebbles, echoed mountains.
Our lightning sundered the ground.
We were the storm in the horizon.

See, they were running to the notion
They could live without transformation.
Drive with their mega mugs holding too much
Of what they never needed.
Blocking the simple connection out from view.

At least some arrived with their senses.
Portraying with their eyes.
Able to escape being the senseless victims of compromise.

© -Sonja J Johnston 24-Feb-2014

Where Goes The Dawn?

He trucked right down route 270
Past the mass commuters with their suits and ties.
Forward bound with his head all filled up with her.
Breaks faltering, feet shaking loose.

That’s when he decide to take her away;
take her off his mind.
There wasn’t any sign
when she vanished.

There wasn’t any evidence to any degree.
Lost breaks, lost mind;
divided across an
Incongruent divorce.

Where goes the dawn?
When the remains slip off the shelf?
A safely devised code transverses
in the hum of wings.

Elegant, smooth, renascence.

© Sonja J. Johnston 18-Feb-2014

Gregation

Turn me around so I can laugh.
Bring back to life that story.
I need a community in my body;
that fire on my fingertips.

We must be the weavers making music.


Why must this wait?
Why must we close our
doors to our own clocks?

Open up your souls and
let your spirits shine!
I want dancing!
I want fire in my fingertips!
There is too much music to be made.

You can do this.
It’s just one GIANT step.

© Sonja J. Johnston 18-Feb-2014

Downstream of The Bear Dance

They talked of music, Janis Joplin and Hendrix.
They talked of Nam and the hippies near the res.
They hid from her camera and she communed with a morning beer.

Looking up at the foothills
lost among the shavings
With the banned Utes.

Static buzz
hammer and nails
The creek was high.

Black cats
Black sheep
Black engines
Buried deep.

Stray dogs
Stray clouds
Drops of water off the fence pipe.
Riding this one out as one Ute's brother baked up in the mountains in hopes of visions.

Standing empty in our skin, we also waited.
It was noon and there were places to go.
Time became unglued as the day trembled.


Looking with glass vision
Raising a toast to his teeth
Chapo rose to acknowledge his reservation,
His failure, unfed.

Her mind walked off.
These were days of repair.
The car was fixed now and her life was busy mending.
Her father had finally come around to meeting her after knowing of her existence for five years.

“Good bye.”
“Never say goodbye” says Chapo, say “See you later.”


© Sonja J. Johnston 12-Feb-2014

Ground Charge

Scarlet skies turn over fallowed land
as the last ashes burn.
Calculated winds pass.
We stand magnetically on ley lines edge,
beating through the ground.

There is a hum from the trees
That pulls us directionally.

© Feb-2001 Sonja J. Phinney

Behind The Veil Of Casualty

Father, prisoner
Hides behind a veil of casualties;
Of loves lost.

A firearm ready in the cool misty morning
stings the forearms, more secrets are dawning.
Bodies struck
Duck heads stung up.


The marrow sucked out
Shadow cloud
Each cell occupied and then,
Unoccupied.

The one who made me soul
Folds his iron wings
Devouring in his space,
But now that we’re all here,
I’ve broken the gates
And opened the causeway.

I found a key and have unlocked a
Portion of what makes him whole.

Measure by measure
The years surrender.
The raven unfurls
Standing at a safe distance
Warming his wings.

© Sonja J. Johnston 11-Feb-14 for Dad

Angler

You just draw me in
Swallow me
Erase me
Find a way to hide me,
Angler.

I’m already sketched into the pavement,
Wrecking ball.

I can’t stand to watch you holding strong
Breaking off
Masking any remnants.

In these confines,
Holding your remote.
Everything real is now
A contaminant.

© Sonja J Johnston 11-Feb-14

Dance of the Jinn

Sing to my soul.
Take it to the marrow.
Later, we will dervish around the roses until we fall into our souls.

Up to the stars they carried our knowing essence, while our souls ground below.
I’ll meet you there someday again.

The psychic told me we were not to meet during this life.
Yet, like a puzzle with a missing piece, we found ourselves in a crowded place, mirrored.

We are an abstract in time.

© 04-June-2007 Sonja J. Phinney (for Chris Volpe)

Chamber and Seek

Forcing the push to happen in
this limited space in time.
I fell into the spell of the
wolf for lack of better sight.


Behind the pane of glass
You now play this little pantomime.
It's a prison you've created.

Can't you see this protection grow?
It needs breaking again, but do it slow.


I look to find you there,
pull you from that glass.
Pull you through this night.
Find you and pull you through;
Ensure you of yourself in flight.

You have forgotten in your struggle
and shut under command.

Your pleasures and your pains remiss.
Security paints your actions.
If only you could open this door
It would bring you back your senses.

But senses come and go quickly like heavy fogs.
You can keep them alive for a moment
and crush them in the next.



Born of bewitched ardor,
crying at a cold backdoor.
Like a black cat stepping gingerly.


The flight plan is a detour.
There's light in the confines revisited.
Looking within the hand gripped hand,
heroes washed in pain.

Our ebb and tide was seeking
that compromise in
our ability to engage.

Take care of these simple things
where we find connection.

Don't break the compass,
It is used for navigation you know.



© Sonja J. Johnston 01 Feb 2014

A Scar in Time

Superficial is the scar
that digs and tunnels.
We are passengers traveling on this mock route;
Carrying our self desirous luggage.

What frequencies we leave about.
Tie it like a knot in time
stitch after stitch
Scarred up, riddled.

An old eraser, uneasy in child’s hand
Rubbing just enough that it can’t be made out.
Are you awake or just receiving static?
Just a flicker of your surrounding?

I am in and out
Of flux.

© 28-Nov-2007 Sonja J. Phinney

Shoes On The Door

He got angry and nailed her shoes to the front door.
This was the dream that awoke me.
Three years later, I found myself overseas
Walking and taking pictures when I came across
A pair of shoes nailed to a front door.
It made me laugh
And I still wonder, the meaning behind those shoes.

People disembark the train with half empty expressions
Around the large station clock, unchained.
Bound to their next destination past the rail noise and announcements.

The air breaths down my back as I pick up a book from the waiting area.
A chattering of families swoop across the station as I read about the local death of
Some teens who had taken an overdose of ecstasy.
White teeth flash in front of me.
I feel the moment of neon and floorboard in my ears.

Hands on a shovel in the cold rain.
Mud through the grass.

A measured moment between flickers
Skin and teeth, feet and shoes
Nailed up like a worded reminder
A broken reminder of what is left behind.

© -Sonja J. Johnston 21-Jan-2014

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