Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Something is Broken

It is not bone.
Not my heart.
Not a beloved’s body,
not even a stranger’s.

Unfamiliar peace below
as shards tumble
in this latest ocean:
now stormy,
eventually calm,
always and ever moving.

So much collision
becomes sea glass.
It cannot help itself.

All broken things mend:
bones knit,
skin scabs over,
hearts love anew,
or they don’t.

Even shattered glass
finds its way
into mosaic,
different from bottle
but still,


(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Bread & Roses -- Star Style

Here is the service/sermon that I crafted as part of the Youth Chapel held at the International Affairs Conference on Star Island on Friday, July 24, 2009.

As part of my love of Star Island, I volunteer direct a week-long youth program (60 kids ages 18 months to 18 years!) and get to create a chapel service at the end of our time together.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Deftly Hearing Music (REDUX)

Today I gave a sermon -- recycled, and I'd like to think improved -- from a homily last summer. T

Friday, July 10, 2009

No Proportation In Love

…no justice in it. (Gilead, Marianne Robinson)

Bear stunned:
tranquilizer to hind side.
Agile scientists scurry close;
opportunity to collect data

Before any tagging
or temperature taking
or blood titrating,
an ocular smear.

Narcotic that pacifies
does not shut the eyes.

Just you try
to keep your eyes open,
nineteen seconds,
or a mere twelve.
Evolutionary blink,
mammalian protection,
against corrosion,
burning, damage.

Say a humble hosanna.

Love bursting on the scene,
we said eyes wide open.
On our second date, you declared
not only your smitten state,
but most all of your serious foibles,
including this one, now,
abrasive in our midst.

Where, then, dearheart,
is my smear?

(cc) Karen G. Johnston

Simple Intention, Muddled Implementation

Hour drive together.
Door slams, peace abraded.
Swollen boy eyes, try once again,
He goes his way, I go mine.
For both, salve.

He’ll sprawl a few hours on crusty couch,
Amid arms, legs of other 15 year olds.
Enough joy to shout the shadows away.

Me: right place, wrong shoes.
Water laps, birdsong, mosquito thrum unabated,
Breeze dances green before my eyes.

To each, salve.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston