Malignant Lace

Do you recall those pegboard lacing tablets?

Smooth, uniform holes, rounded lace.
Dull repetition is what I remember:
Up, through, out, over.
Up, through, out. over.
Again & again, learning lacing & tying, but
incapable of untangling the board,
leaving behind a criss-cross mess.

That was the first image of your latest tumor,
threading its way along & through your spine.
Crimson colored, my brain has made it,
complete with plastic-encased aglets.

It poisons its way in & out,
each old vertebrae lending itself
without judgment or resistance,
holding the cord like those pegboard holes.
Much too resolutely.

Damn malignant lace.

What if instead of entwined
in the labyrinth of your precious body,
this wicked fastening festered
only on the outside?

Oh, that I could be chivalrous rescuer &
your cancer a century old
satin undergarment with whale-bone stays,
stretched & unyielding, squeezing breath,
the very life out of you.

Were it so, a corset strung too tight,
I would be your single-minded lover,
brimming with proper motivation.
Dexterous hands, nimble & eager,
pulling the last of the loosened trappings:

one fluid motion of sweet release.




(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Sunrise on the East Coast

I

Far from home, I followed my new South Shore friend.

Got up early, watched the sun rise over the massive sea.

Incredulous, speechless, animated in my loss for words.

A tried and true west coaster, the sun always set on the ocean,

not rose.

II

Three years later, college paths worn divergently,

she appeared late one long, dark night of the soul.

Shattered mirror left in her room,

bloodied fist at the end of her sleeve,

she huddled in the corner as incestuous specters captivated her.

Lovingly, by candle flicker, I sketched her that night.

Her arms, legs a barricade against internal onslaught,

angles of contortion drawing me in.

I asked permission, but have always wondered:

her mouthed yes was hardly full consent.

III

Decades later I do not know her, though that night inhabits me.

I wish I could walk this North Shore beach with her,

another east coast sunrise blowing my mind.

Every so often I toy with the idea of modern serendipity:

irregular Google searches never yield enough clues to find her.

Her name so common,

like her tormented history,

like this lesson, over and over,

of loss, longing, learning:

looking to light.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

West Cummington’s Minister

This afternoon, I attended the candlelight service at the West Cummington Church (congregationalist, I believe) in West Cummington, MA. This is the third or forth year I have attended this service, because either one or both of my children have sung in a school chorus that performs at this service (voluntarily, of course! Their school music director is the music director at this church...). It is a beautiful service, full of Jesus and full of Christ far more than I am usually comfortable with. But the minister has such a humble way about him. The small village church and his unassuming ways move me. This year, moved me to write this poem. -- KJ

Formidable, his voice booms

shoulders broad, jaw sturdy,

simple grey suit magnifies solid stature.

Yet his finger is bandaged

signaling translucent vulnerability,

his and our own.

He calls his compassion foolish &

invites us to join him.

Such gentle force straddling

earthly & godly realms.

In this church there is no scolding god

to fear, though Christ is everywhere.

No certainty in this message or

arrogance in the messenger.

He is of us, among us,

& his gift stands him apart

just enough

to ignite light.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Good Harbor Beach, December

Walking back,

already going the way I came,

saw what was to be seen.

Been there, done that,

so why look back?

Except when I do

[of course, it is a wildly

joyful dog who pulls me

out of focus]

the sky is on fire.

Cottony, molteny bursts inviting ecstatic immolation.

Then, at no specific moment, only a before and an after,

exploded magenta rays dissipating beyond my visual field

and intellectual ken.

Awash.

The only word that comes close.

Abundance.

Gratitude.

Humility.

Awe.

These are approximate names,

coarse, earthy, lacking:

equally worthy but still wide of the mark.

Awash.

Awash.

Awash.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Her Fingertips at the Other Woman's Waist

Femme wannabe

sheathed in black velvet,

shapely curves suggesting

ample breasts, hungry

hips, silky thighs.

Black-haired butch,

suave in grandfather’s tails,

intent gaze charming

all in the room.

Her fingertips at the

other woman’s waist

exude heat as she

hands over a drink.

These two no longer

dance together,

but still she leads

this way and that.

Martini a false excuse,

the giddy femme follows,

her unspoken offer

tempting, but unheeded.

The host has already

moved on to other guests.

murdered martyr girl?

At the end of October, I gave a sermon entitled "Hope with Feet." (found at www.leamon.org/kj) In it, I spoke about Tom Fox, an anti-war activist with the Christian Peace Makers, who was murdered earlier this year in Iraq. The statement of conviction that he and some members of his group wrote before going over to Iraq made quite an impression on me. http://www.cpt.org/iraq/response/ iraq_team_statement_of_conviction.htm





In the sermon, I also spoke of Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador, one of my heroes from my Liberation Theology class as an undergrad. He, too, was murdered in the people's quest for peace and justice.

I worried that using these slain heroes as examples of inspiration and hope might not work for others as it had for me. But response to the sermon was positive.

The other day I was at my office holiday party. We have a tradition of "Secret Snowflake" (a failed attempt to make it not just about Christmas). One's secret snowflake leaves anonymous presents for a week, culminating in a party where one has to guess in front of everyone who is the secret gift giver (I am always wrong). Once guessed and revealed, one opens the "biggest, best" gift. Again, in front of everyone. This is the time to practice fake face just in case you get a present that may be beautiful in the eye of the giver, but not so much for the beholder.

So I'm up in front of everyone, opening a gift from a person in my organization whom I like, but barely know and with whom I rarely work. I tear off the wrapping paper to find a lovely hard cover book -- daily inspirtational writings from Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I was ecstatic! I had just watched a great documentary (http://www.bonhoeffer.com/thefilm.htm) about this man who came to Union Seminary to expand his theology and was rocked by the Christianity he found in Harlem; this man who was comfortable in New York but opted to return to Germany because he saw the rise of facism and knew he had to stand against it; this man who took part in an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler and who was executed for it Another dead martyr!

My co-worker knew I have been "dabbling" in writing sermons but has never read one. He didn't know I even knew who this guy was (or that I could pronounce his name correctly, since I speak fluent German). He had no idea that Bonhoeffer was one of the heroes of the German family with whom I lived as a high school exchange student in 1984/5 -- the first Christians I met who were not hypocrites in my eyes and truly tried to live their lives according to Jesus' teachings. My co-worker had no idea that apparently, I have a thing for martyred heroes, maybe even martyred Christian heroes if you look at this list. I didn't realize it either...

He cannot be flirting with me

my table in this crowded café at

wrong angles for his appraising gaze.

He’s not flirting with his wife – if that’s

who is sitting at the table with him.

It is overflow because he’s bored

with her incessant drivel or wasp-ish

at what’s going unsaid or distracted by

the news of his friend’s recent relapse.

Maybe she’s not his wife and it is

because he wants to jump her bones

and hasn’t yet found a way to let her know.

It’s definitely not the foot,

unremarkable in shape and size.

Or apparel, which borders on

aesthetically offensive:

white athletic socks, sturdy sandals.

It is itself: of itself, for itself.

…and utterly sensual.

It is the recurring sweep of the curve,

How when it reaches the top of

its simple circle, foot slows,

not out of hesitation,

possibly out of anticipation,

but most likely

out of sheer satisfaction.

Momentum suggestive of other intimate rhythms.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Everything everything

Why is everything everything?

Why is grace awkward?

Truth both shiny and dull?

How can honesty be humble and haughty,

sometimes hurtful?

Jane Hirschfield wrote

the world is a blurred version

of itself. There it is again: the thing

is itself and its shadow,

the fact and the perception,

perhaps even the interpretation.

Befuddled, bewildered, beleaguered,

I bellow, “When will this lesson stop?”

Amused, the heavens koan:

When it stops being a lesson.

While doubly true,

it is only half reassuring:

Ugly inside of beauty,

hunger entwined with satisfaction,

peace birthed of conflict.

No depth without surface,

not one without the other,

no shadow without light.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Kick-ass boots

These are my kick-ass boots. I wear them when I'm feeling kick-ass or when I want to feel kick-ass. I wear them when I know I will be delivering my poetry. I wear them when I want to look hot, when I feel hot, and when I am hot. They are the red biker boots I have been destined for years and spent too much money on and don't regret it one tiny bit.

They are my signature.

Oh, that, and compassion. Red kick-ass boots and compassion. Doesn't get much better than that. (Maybe humility. I'm working on that one. The red kick-ass boots don't really help with that...)

Bodhi tree

This is the actual Bodhi tree from Buddha's story. Well, actual is a longer story. This is what I know. That the original Bodhi tree lived and grew and was where Sidhartha Gautama sat some 2500 years ago. At least one piece of it was cut off and sent to some faraway kingdom in Sri Lanka. Then the original was killed in 600 C.E. A cutting from that other cutting was sent back and was planted in the same spot, perhaps around 620 C.E. My friend, who gave me this photo, and a leaf from the tree, said this is it. However, the web tells us that there was a British archeologist (Cunningham) who, in the 1860s and 1870s, found the tree at first decaying and then wholly dead -- though seeds from the tree had sprouted in its decay (how fitting!).

There is a shrine built around it: the Mahabodhi temple in Bodhgaya, India. This is what wikipedia says about it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodhi_tree and here is more:
http://www.angelfire.com/electronic/bodhidharma/bodhi_tree.html

No one is allowed to pick leaves. One has to wait til they fall. The leaf I have sits on my altar and acts as a tactile connection to this long lineage to Buddha. Many objects sit on my altar. They are symbols which, at the end of each sitting, I express my gratitude. To my daughter (represented by a whimsical praying penguin she once formed out of clay for me). To my son (who fashioned a detailed sitting Buddha). A nearly whole sand dollar, the soul of the Pacific Ocean (source of adolescent solace). Stillness, that I know to seek this even when I may not actually get there. Fatima's hand, for looking out on my behalf. Ganesh, remover of obstacles. A gold medallion given to me by my Aunt Ruth, for treading the path before I came along. Englightment, in the form of a sitting Buddha, light emanating, for existing though I may never grasp or come near. Gratitude, in the form of a rock cairn, that I find a way to be thankful each day in my life. Lit candles, for Mystery which goes before me and before us all. A beaded bracelet given to me by a woman in the Bush in Kenya -- adventure in connection. A glass jelly jar full of agates, the jar from my great grandmother, the agates from my aunt, representing the way my family grounds and holds me. Two statues: one of serenity, one of suffering. They used to sit apart, on either side of the altar, as if they were separate. But they are not separate, are of one cloth, and so they sit on one side, ruining some false symetry. They are the last object to which I say my ending thanks. "Thank you serenity/suffering, who are one, who are."

Quintet

These have been posted separately on this blog, but they tell a single story and so I wanted them together. -- KJ

#1:

Mt. Auburn Cemetery, August

I want to be that willow at the water’s edge

To find myself floating over you

Face to face

Gravity making of strands of my hair

The willow’s graceful downward drape.

I want my hair to fall down over you

Sweeping your skin in the tenderest of ways

To hang down to your belly

Tickling and teasing to just that point --

Up to but not including that point --

That annoys and vexes you.

I know that what I have to offer you now

Is only somewhat similar

Perhaps not very much similar,

not near exact in the least little bit

I know that what I have to offer lacks the grace

the timeless wisdom

the steadfast nature

of that willow at the pond.

The peace I offer is intermittent,

sometimes sporadic,

assuredly inconsistent,

Seen on the periphery,

sometimes inhaled with eyes closed,

but rarely grasped & never held.

I do present you other gifts:

A ready, real smile,

a certain sense of your true beauty,

the offering and satisfaction of my flesh;

The chance to risk a good-bye,

the opportunity to lose me,

the possibility to remain whole.

I want to offer you the peace of that willow

I want to be the peace:

all that sway without weakness.

all that strength without rigidity.

Instead, for now, I will hover just above you,

My hair cascading down, caressing your cheek

Our bodies the pond that slakes the willow’s thirst.

~~~~~~~~~~~

#2: Flawed Aim

On the cusp, you

teeter between

hunger & true self.

Maybe not an addict

(though I remain unconvinced)

the craving inside

is the same that

drives the dope fiend,

shadowy, stunted, greedy.

Through the third eye

and in the swiftness of minor denials

I can still see who you were not so long ago,

Earning the title that makes you wince:

Selfish says spurned lover

mimicking daughter

inner voice

Still see the tormented introvert of an adolescent,

Shifty for survival, all zips and secrets,

Feeling rage, seeking numbness.

Still see the battered resignation of childhood

that makes of your skin

an ill-fitting suit.

This is what I believe, what I sense is true:

Today and with each step forward,

You are the fob at the end of a pocket watch chain

hypnotically swaying back & forth

weighted towards truth.

You are the diviner’s wooden rod, your

nose stretched uncomfortably before you,

pointing you in the right direction.

You don’t always start there.

Sometimes you miss your mark,

Yet eventually you come round right.

Flawed aim towards light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#3: Timing

In what would be our last tender moment

I called in the sensual grogginess

of barely ended bad dream,

one infused with sweaty anxiety

and pathetic,

urgent need of you

at the wrong time.

I felt ugly, exposed

yet you didn’t scold or hang up.

Instead you listened sweetly, cooed at me,

rocked me in the lap of your long distance words.

Dream drifted to memory and

I slept soundly.

Three nights later you re-created my nightmare:

I ring your number at the time we said we’d talk,

but you don’t answer.

I pull at uneven threads

in the sweater of your next-day responses,

the knit unravels,

revealing your choice of

her, not me.

We have always said

you need to improve your timing:

jokes suffer when you tell them.

This time, I beg to differ.

This time, cruelly,

you got the timing perfect:

This time, sleep is no relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#4: MISSING

~~~~~~~~~~

#5: Postcards

“How are you?” in silky Irish brogue

“Fine” in my rather Unconvincing.

“No really, how are you?”

It would be better if you ask

“Where are you?” or

“Where have you been?”

You mollify me, repeat word for word,

barely disguising annoyance.

Ignoring your tone, I inquire

“Didn’t you get the postcards?”

Me, fiddling with the whole stack

Each one scrawled with rants and recants

Each one with sufficient postage yet no postmark.

First I checked into a Self-Indulgent Inn.

By day, sobbing in lakeside Adirondack chair;

Otherwise, nocturnal scribbling of minutiae,

shallow addlement seeping off the pages,

staining characterless bedcover

in this tedious room.

Next I revisited the canyon breach

that expands the space between

your words & actions, my hands

straining to grasp what you have said

as my feet lose hold on the oily residue

of what you have done.

Then an unexpected side trip to

raunchy, hormone-driven Desire

collecting every word with even the slightest

hint at sex & attaching them all,

making of you a pheromonal kite

airborne on ocean winds with colorful,

uneven tail that trails behind &

sets me chasing.

I had hoped to have a rock hound holiday,

seeking in the rough some diamond facet

that sets this one apart from the

long line of lost loves.

But something got mixed up,

the reservation or the timing.

I’m not really sure what happened

or if I’ll ever make it there.

My intended final destination

(As final as any gets in this life,

so not really final but something like it,

maybe a place to pivot, a chance

to end this journey & start the next):

Ancient stone Buddha in conflicted land,

crumbled Taliban pieces

still able to whisper tenderly in my ear

pain is inevitable; suffering is not.

Universe in my Uterus

A famous poet once conjured the world in a grain of sand.

My doctor has conjured the universe in my uterus.

No worn cliché: Menses, Seed, Life, Fetus

but a fibroidal White Dwarf, the echo of what was once a star.

A cystic degenerating black hole

collapsing in upon itself

as any self-respecting dying growth should.

On my bad days

(when my mind unhitches ‘benign’ from 'growth'),

I taste the dark thickness,

see the thick darkness,

feel the cobwebs cluttering the crevices

where this complicated tissue has insinuated itself.

On my good days

(when hypochondriacal whispers of gangrene are muted),

I sense Wonder, even Order

on the grandest scale.

Having outgrown its blood supply

this grapefruit-sized orb embedded in my uterine wall

has become tangerine & liquid- centered

a liquor-filled truffle going supervnova.

Having never given birth to a child

I wonder now

if my womb will be home instead

to any variety of celestial bodies:

Nebula, Oort Clouds, the Kuiper Belt, perhaps even a Red Giant

Left with humbler tools

than God who made the Universe or

my physician with her extensive technology,

on my whimsical days

I conjure only a red garden gnome: hollow friendly innocuous

All In One

Undeniable streak of caution

with solid foothold in my spirit

Prudence, unmistakable,

but also incontestable essence

of outrage and outrageousness,

of edge and edginess,

that generates breath

in my spirit

and breathiness

in my flesh.

Honey-Tinted Treasure

The fact of your recent visit to the lake was revealed in the honey tint of your skin peeking out from under your rolled up sleeves. I could have stared at your forearm for hours. Perhaps the hair on your arm, above your wrist and up further, has always been that illuminated hue of gold and I had been immune. In that very moment that I was held captive by the sight of it, by the sight of you. I imagined the honey, the gold: the treasure if I were to touch your cool, then ever-warming, skin.

My mind’s eye begins the story of my needy finger tips wending their way along your arm. I want to be blind and read you like the Braille book that you are, that you would be to me. New chapters draw me in: the roughness of your sharp elbow, the musky forest where your arm meets your utterly smooth chest, the hollow where your ribs meet well above your belly button. You are a novel that I cannot put down, will not put down, will lie to my boss and call in sick to finish, leaving each page dog-earred and meticulously consumed.

I am overcome by the imagined sensation of what each section of your delicious body would taste like: the lull of sweet as my lips graze yours, seeking and confirming our mutual delight; the sting of your unshaven cheek as my own cheek slides across, then nudges, then pushes into yours; the tease of sour as I nip, then bite, the nape of your neck and chew the lobe, my breath hot and weighty in your ear; the flirt of salt that lingers on your shoulder blades, each jutting out as I grasp your arms behind your back, an enticing resistance urging us onward.

I see the moist notations my tongue traces in the margins as I move downward along your spine, each vertebrae sighing as my sweet breath passes and hovers, teasingly, there at that delicate place where your one back becomes two palmfuls of flesh which I hold with a rather gentle force with my hands. The smooth texture of your hips, solid and firm under kisses from my parted lips bouncing as I turn your body from back to front, cover to cover, to bring a swirling, languishing, and passionate infusion of tongue, lips, and breath to your navel.

I am wet. I cannot go on. I blush at the thought of putting to paper what else my mind’s eye has conjured. Perhaps I have not made good on my promise to complete the novel of your enthralling body.

Or there remains a sequel yet to be written.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Aurora borealis

Pulsing, panting

Erotic & maternal

Visual rhythm,

Textured sound

Expanding, contracting

Deafening & illuminating

Sex could not be grander than this;

Love not nearly so convincing.

How stay atheist in its midst?

How distrust Nature’s ritual as holy

And everything else right as it is?

But like these Northern Lights

Always beyond my simple grasp.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

some flattery going on

“laura ruth,” i say,

“but what’s the point?!!”

sisters chuckle their nods:

ain’t it the truth!

but she’s on a roll

her pride and tradition

won’t have none of you.

girl! when are you going to learn?

ever since you known me

and ever since i known me,

concise

is not in my vocabulary.

you ask about my point: listen closer.

each time you hurry me

it’s like you move my home

a foot farther north.

let me tell you, sweet sister,

i have already given up

my present tense

to be in this climate,

do not ask me to give up my past.

she doesn’t miss a beat,

catching the last tangent

as she winds its way

ever farther in the story line.

the more i try for her brevity

the taller her tale becomes.

we all know

there’s some flattery going on here,

so i let my sister

have her exaggerations and her inventions,

because she has her whisps of truth.

truth is small and sacred,

as invisible as a hurricane.

those whisps she offers

knock me square & speechless…

she just picks up the slack.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

For Rachel

turning

looking around

circles

getting dizzy

spinning

slowly softly

falling onto the green

green

green grass

the land of milk and honey

sitting in a stream

cold water

wet

toes

bitten toes

toes bitten by fishies

swimming

circles around me

perhaps dizzy

dizzy like me

dizzy together

dizzy in the spring

turning

around

circles

turning in the water

swimming

around me

My Grandmother's Dying

soon, but not soon enough.

granddaughter, you say,

death does not come soon enough.

our only chance to approximate closeness

greets us in the final days of your life.

did you tell me your truth of our family

so that you may live

in my knowing how

it pained and pleased you?

does part of me die with you

in revealing how

it has pained and pleased me?

soon, but not soon enough.

there is a shadowed passion there,

a deeper vision.

soon, but not soon enough.

you would deny any spiritual nature,

but i wonder,

bringing my own needs about faith

to this singular moment.

listen: soon, but not soon enough.

familiar: soon, but not soon enough.

rhythm: soon, but not soon enough.

blood of your blood: soon, but not soon enough.

it is an ironic fit:

in these moments i feel closest to you,

i know most keenly

the distance between us.

i will miss you in your infinite absence.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

A Multitude of Empty Space

(for Lew)

These are not scars,

Not thick disfigurement nor defacement

These are not ghosts

Not demons of contagious shadow

Nor haint of tainted evil

These are holes

Many, many holes

A multitude of empty space

Once containing terror, confused betrayal

Drilled there by violence

I have longed for them to be gone

wished them away

Wish them

the drill

the driller

away

into oblivion

There There Nonetheless there

Here, today, now

I sit with these holes

Greet them and am greeted

Embrace and am embraced

Here, today, now

Overflowing with Transcendence

In the midst of this resolute healing, these holes

Hold me,

not hurt me

Hold me,

not harm me

Hold me,

not haunt me

Here, today, now

Once holes, now space

The Sacred sits here

Mystery fills this emptiness made in me

I am holy. I am whole.

ontopof that

this is a strange-and-magical life, this life of family that defies nuclear, embraces cosmic, exemplifies alternative.

this magical-and-expansive life where my fourthgradedaughter writes a poem at school, proclaiming without hesitation, exclaiming her loving truth, she is “from three mothers;” this same daughter who told the school psychologist she has three mothers, but only one parent;

[this is the most succinct and accurate description i have ever heard of her and her brother’s and my and our strange, magical, expansive life together.

yes, this expansive-and-confounding life, this lesbian-ex-partner-former-foster-mother-
who-takes-them-one-night,-two-afternoons- each-month; who-calls-herself-parent-but-isn’t-sure-she-wants-them-both-
at-the-same-time-for-her-one-week-each-summer; who-wanted-for-years-to-have-
first-right-of-refusal-should-I-die-but-would-give-no-guarantee,
-but-just-today-stopped-renting-and-decided-to-buy-the-hypothetical-responsibility-
if-I-kick-the-bucket;-this-loving,-committed-mamasue-for-whom-there-is-no-shorthand-
or-legal-name-and-who-can’t-stand-the-title-“godmama”-so-don’t-say-it-too-loud-
when-she’s-around life.

yes, this confounding-and-contorting life, this birth-mother-who-heaps-presents-twice-a-year,
-rollerskating-and-lasertagging; who-doesn't-know-how-to-talk-to-children,-saying-
way-too-much-for-little-ears; who’s-showed-up-year-after-year,-hasn’t-disappeared-
as-DSS-predicted; whom-i've-got-to-help-along-and-why-can't-someone- else-help-her,- why- does-it-have-to-be-me-except-that-i-am-her-children’s-mother-so-it-has-to-be-me life.

this contorting-and-bewildering life: this three-mothers life, two of whom are limited in how much they can or are willing to commit to my kids whom they love fiercely and one mother, that’s me, trying to make space and way for them and their connection to those lovely munchkins who take out their anger and disappointment on me and direct their fantasies of perfection toward them.

this bewildering-contorted-confounding-expansive-magical-strange life in this village we’ve created/found/been blessed with, with its friends who take the kids afterschool/beforeschool when work runs too long; with its mediocre babysitter who questions my judgement and calls my children brats but who shows up every week and doesn't charge too much; this life with its onceayear birth grandparents and great grandparents with their genuine gratitude to not have been cut off; with its chicago cousins who scream joy late night at ohare for all the world to see; this life with its sunday congregation who shows up to hold us, tether us in this windywaywardworld; with its exboyfriend who shows up inbetween international travel, asks the kids to be katubah and ring bearers and makes sure those same kids get their livewith mother presents at christmas and on her birthday

but this year, well, not this year, because this year they are big enough, mature enough, settled enough, something enough, that they are already ontopof that…

Not a song, but a poet

who are you?

what songs will utter your name,
our name once we've established one?
will you be joni mitchell?
ella & louis?
not meshell, i sense that already

maybe you will not be a song
but a poet.

you with your large hands
that move with such grace and excitement
you with such welcoming flesh
that melts me

aren't you Pablo Neruda?
with affection for every mundane thing
raising it above this day
to the sphere where our spirits meet
and our bodies wish as destination?

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Dragonflies and Currents

(in honor of Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day)

Gentle current just turned

my kayak half-circle

while I’ve tended these words

rather than my paddles.

Its determination is quixotic,

denies my intent to go upriver.

Water-soaked rotting grey log

sits half in, half out of the water.

Current persists on sending

my kayak back whence it came.

Log catches the bottom of my boat,

commands me to linger, for now.

Airplanes drone, motor boats roar, jet skis scream.

Already I have paddled past five bloated fish

Dead at the surface,

rainbow scales brilliant in the sun.

Is this some sinister sign?

A warning to rush home,

shower off the splashes of river

that have landed from my clumsy effort

at forward motion?

Yet there are the dragonflies.

One, an opaque white

with iridescence slight pink

(or was it blue?)

flitting into & out of view.

I have eyed what must be

gigantic ones in the distance.

I call out an invitation to come closer.

Unheard,

misunderstood,

or silently declined,

None come close enough for my satisfaction.

A medium-sized one alighted

on the bough of the kayak,

All black: no vibrant colors catch my eye.

I nearly turn away, but then its wings flutter.

an intricate design, black and translucent.

Still there is the current.

Ever determined, insistently,

it has dislodged my kayak.

As I float downstream, I hear the faint murmur

of a triumphant laugh in the wake of the water.

I join in laughing, relieved the river still prevails.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

i come from the evergreen

This was first published in Red Weather, Volume 13, Number 2 (Spring, 1989). -- KJ

vast african sky

more real than god

suffocating the earth

consuming the land

housing clouds, promises of rain

which teasingly pass

the dry soil

the aching roots

the emaciated cattle

housing this violence called sun

which destroys my skin

assures my cancer

tolerating me

i stand in a valley flatness

helpless

exposed

defenseless

verdant hills, too far and too steep,

sting my eyes;

they are my unattainable solace

where am i

in this hostile environment:

hopelessly dependent

sky is the keeper of my lungs

when i die

it is not the ground

which will swallow me,

but the sky

Business Meeting

Professional attire,

correct posture,

proper attitude.

Serious adults

talking seriously

about serious topics.

I nod my head,

contribute minutiae,

pose attentively.

Yet all I think about is

Your one hand gently,

firmly at my neck:

teeth on my nipple,

tease of pressure mounting.

Your other hand, skillful,

between my legs,

heat swelling, rising.

You, hard, inside me.

My finger tips trace

every measure of your body:

the smooth, the textured, the hairy,

the tasty, the hard, the wet,

the curvy, the boney, the supple,

the curly, the sharp:

the all of your body

that begs me to consume you.

Days later these images flash

across my mind’s rather libidinal eye:

I shudder.

People must think

I have developed a tic.

If they look carefully,

they discern not

a nervous nature,

but reminiscent pleasure.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Peace and…

Maybe a better title would be "Verbatim"...KJ

I’ll be quiet, okay?

Okay?

Do you want me to be quiet?

Because I’ll be quiet…

Okay?

Mommy, I asked you a question.

It’s a reasonable question to ask.

Would you please respond?

Mommy?

Am I being funny?

Am I being funny?

I don’t get it. Am I being funny?

(cc) Karen G. Johnston (co-written with Mariah)

Postcards

“How are you?” in silky Irish brogue

“Fine” in my rather Unconvincing.

“No really, how are you?”

It would be better if you ask

“Where are you?” or

“Where have you been?”

You mollify me, repeat word for word,

barely disguising annoyance.

Ignoring your tone, I inquire

“Didn’t you get the postcards?”

Me, fiddling with the whole stack

Each one scrawled with rants and recants

Each one with sufficient postage yet no postmark.

First I checked into a Self-Indulgent Inn.

By day, sobbing in lakeside Adirondack chair;

Otherwise, nocturnal scribbling of minutiae,

shallow addlement seeping off the pages,

staining characterless bedcover

in this tedious room.

Next I revisited the canyon breach

that expands the space between

your words & actions, my hands

straining to grasp what you have said

as my feet lose hold on the oily residue

of what you have done.

Then an unexpected side trip to

raunchy, hormone-driven Desire

collecting every word with even the slightest

hint at sex & attaching them all,

making of you a pheromonal kite

airborne on ocean winds with colorful,

uneven tail that trails behind &

sets me chasing.

I had hoped to have a rock hound holiday,

seeking in the rough some diamond facet

that sets this one apart from the

long line of lost loves.

But something got mixed up,

the reservation or the timing.

I’m not really sure what happened

or if I’ll ever make it there.

My intended final destination

(As final as any gets in this life,

so not really final but something like it,

maybe a place to pivot, a chance

to end this journey & start the next):

Ancient stone Buddha in conflicted land,

crumbled Taliban pieces

still able to whisper tenderly in my ear

pain is inevitable; suffering is not.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston