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

Mt. Auburn Cemetery, August

I want to be a willow

at the water’s edge,

find myself floating

over you, face to face

gravity making

strands of my hair

the willow’s

graceful

downward

drape.

What I have to offer you

is only somewhat similar

perhaps not very much similar,

not near exact in the least little bit.

What I have to offer you

lacks the grace

the timeless wisdom

the steadfast nature

of that willow at the pond.

What I have to offer you

is intermittent,

sometimes sporadic,

assuredly inconsistent.

There are 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 be the peace of that willow:

all that sway without weakness.

all that strength without rigidity.

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.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

struck just so

This was published in volume three of Equinox: an excursion of stories, poems & essays (2006). -- KJ

feet slip under legs

sitting side by side on sofa,

mingling warmth and desire

backs hover

into perceptible touch:

sweet friction

riding the same vibration

of longing,

growing

mounting

with intensity

a giant tuning fork

struck just so

I shiver to contain

the bittersweet note that rises

when you are near.

he needs a witness, this poem

This was published in volume three of the Equinox: an excusion of stories, poems, & essays (2006). -- KJ

tantrum

the child

loud

feet stomp

linoleum floor

we say

use your

quiet voice

the landlord wakes

too early.

guarding his

private property,

he kicks us out

using the courts

we have tried so hard

to avoid

in keeping this child

out of the system

which will

punish him

for not being

an e.e. cummings poem

but a supreme court

sacrifice

to the wolves

testimony

that people do fall

through

the

cracks

because

it is

his body

broken.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Epilogue

prologue lasted months;

epilogue, now, even longer.

the heart of this bittersweet novella?

one week.

so alive, so dense

with hope & fear,

tension & anticipation,

longing, sweet pleasure & then

your swift desertion.

I have become for you

apparition,

flat thing

no longer person

who moves you

no longer lover

who holds sway

over your spirit

or flesh.

I have become for you a pressed flower.

I have never been

a delicate blossom,

the kind found pressed,

made into exquisite stationery

veins of petals

leaking their fragility

precious for looking

but not for touching.

I am coarse wild flower.

Voluptuous Black-eyed Susan.

Blatant Coneflower.

Edgy Yarrow.

If I leak anything,

it is pollen

that smears

on your hands,

reminds you

of Possibility & Abundance.

No soft-cover best seller

will do your dirty work.

No,

to press and flatten me,

you need a truly heavy book.

Perhaps Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate, 11^th edition,

hardbound

hefty

awkward to hold.

I can just see you

holding a flower

pulled from the humid field

with stream and sun

and your sweat.

An agonizing moment

Of loss and relief.

You return home.

Open dictionary.

Vacillate between pages

topped with guide words

past or future.

Either way

the book does not close

flatly

evenly

cleanly.

Not at first.

Perhaps

in time.

There must be such danger

in my remaining

the full breadth

width

height

you once knew me to be

once held in your arms

once enveloped

with your urgent kisses.

I do not know

whether to envy

or rage

at you,

at how you’ve turned me

into this two-dimensional figment

no longer full-bodied person

but now pressed flower

bookmark

phantom.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Yes

I was moved to write this blessing for my friend, Rachel's, wedding in Sonoma, California, in 2003. -- KJ

Today you say yes to life, yes to love, yes to living, yes to the embrace of god, yes to delight, yes to the blessings and tribulations of union, yes to mortality, yes to immortality.

Today you say yes and we say it too: whole-heartedly, with compassion, joy, and exuberance. We say it with you and we say it to you.
♥ We say yes, we will rejoice in your union.

♥ We say yes, we will hold you up to let you shine and we will hold you up to bring you out of the muck.

♥ We say yes: we are your community, we are a small part of this chaotic, exhilarating, triumphant, sorrowful, unjust, inspiring, ever-renewing world which says yes to your yes.

I wish you uncountable mundane days of solid, confident love and I wish you abundant jewel days of love which take your breath away.

I wish you journeys where you meet each other again and again, glad for the companionship, sustained by the act of witness.

I wish you ever-fresh patience through painful moments when you do not recognize each other and have been persuaded by some malicious wind that you do not want to try again.

I wish you the blessings which come with children: humility, greater purpose, redoubled determination to make this world kinder, more just, and filled with contagious compassion.

May the Mystery which brought us here, the same Mystery which takes us away, and that very same Mystery which surrounds each breath we take – may this Mystery bless this day, bless this union, bless this Yes.

definitely not calm (through audre's work)

This one has many different forms/revisions and shifts when I slam it, but it is substantially the same. I first wrote it after working in Boston in 1990 on a cele-conference for Audre Lorde. -- KJ


I.

i was so angry today.
i was angry today
because i was so calm.

and i don’t understand
how i can be so calm,
not today,
not this month,
not this year,
not this decade.

how can i be so calm
at a time of such pain and suffering?
maybe anger is not my only retort,
but definitely not calm.
maybe rage,
joy,
action,
celebration,
tears,
pain,
action,
but definitely not calm.

not when people i don’t know
are dying,
violently,
not by their own wishes
but by the greed of others,
other men,
other white men,
other straight white men,
other straight white rich men.

bastards.

definitely not calm.
because that’s what the bastards are.
calm.
never letting on,
never showing their fear,
the bloody-eyed rancid stares
of arching, singular fear.

definitely not calm.

but dance,
but shout,
but scream,
but write,
but laugh,
but sing,
but definitely not calm.

i don’t want to be calm.
people i know are in pain,
are in trouble,
are at daily risk
to their daily lives
and i can’t remain calm
in a situation where screams
and laughter
are the only true option
of sanity,
of humanity.

not calm.
i am not calm.
iamjoyous.
iamfilledwithrighteousrage.
iamfullofanger,
fullofsadness,
fulloftears.
amjumpingskippinglullabying,
but i am not calm.
C – A – L - M
that’s what i am not


II.

how shall i move,
how shall i let this move me,
compel me,
i mean,
move me with
my sisters and brothers?
move me strikingly,
move me with vision,
move me with forethought,
with afterthought,
with recognition,
with determination,
with endurance
for things for which i have no vision or thought.

i do not mean move me forward,
in a straight line,
in a line predetermined,
in a calm line…

I DO NOT MEAN CALM.

i mean
dancing,
circling,
laughing,
raging,
outraging,
crying,
caring.
not calm, but excitement.
not calm, but determination.

do it with my sisters
and with my brothers,
do it with my people
who are my people,
who are my own
because i am different than they,
and they different than i,

because i will move
through my racism,
my ignorance,
my fears,
i will move
with determination
with endurance
i will stand with my sister,
and with my brother,
as i risk,
as they risk,
as we stand together
with pen & brush,
with skill,
with hammer & harp,
with voice & heart & hope.

III.
there is something here about trust.
in our desperation,
what else could there be?
what else will there be
but trust
when we have nothing else in common?

where oppression is born,
at its core: a misshapen
and cruelly concrete center,
there is no bond,
no link,
no trust.

to build trust is to move with my people
to trust is to quash the bastards.
to earn trust is to stifle the calm.

so outside this master’s house,
i strive to build trust,
to build trust with people
i do not know,
with people i fear,
because this
the master
would never
allow.

i strive to build trust,
to not recoil
permanently
when i am held accountable
for my white,
my middle class,
my oppressive ways.

i will not be bitter
when i hold my sisters
and my brothers
accountable
for their racism,
their sexism,
their homophobia,
their economic privilege.

if we can stretch,
stretch with determination,
stretch with pain,
if we can stretch without knowing
that we will reach each other in the end,
only then have we taken
the real risks of trust,
only then have we built a home
where the master’s house
once stood.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston