tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27201516909647851332024-02-07T00:01:38.620-05:00Special KSpecK is short for Special K. It's not SpecK's way. It's SpecK sway. From the line of one of my poems:
All that sway without weakness/ all that strength without rigidity. Thank you for visiting. Let me know what you think! Namaste.SpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.comBlogger218125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-75077831672413167912011-12-16T18:58:00.001-05:002011-12-16T19:00:20.234-05:00How Helplesslike someone <br />in a foreign land<br />with a daypack<br />of only your own<br />provincial tongue.<br /><br />Poems are meant <br />to speak in metaphor,<br />but this is your truth,<br />your horrifying truth.<br /><br />I know you<br />only so much.<br />Even so,<br />this much I know:<br /><br />Every atom of oxygen<br />you would have forgone;<br />deeply into alien earth<br />you would have sunk;<br />a ravage of tears<br />you did, indeed, weep.<br /><br />All to keep<br />her breathing,<br />all to keep<br />her here.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-11249387719573735232011-08-21T15:47:00.002-05:002011-08-21T15:55:22.302-05:00An Open Letter to Rachel MaddowI heard the urgency and longing as she started the autobiographical preamble that is unique to her but I am guessing you have heard – in various versions – many times before, prefacing the very same question, posed to you, the very same heart-felt dilemma delivered at your feet.
<br />
<br />A vulnerable, “Can you tell me what to do?” A needy, “Will you tell me what to do?” An insistent, “Tell me what to do!” With its whispered underneath, “You are so clever, so articulate, and funny to boot! Please, please, just tell me what to do to save this world, tell me that the world might be saved in my life time.”
<br />
<br />I am nowhere near as schooled as you, or brilliant as you; neither do I enjoy the wide acclaim your position in national media affords you. My life has, however, afforded me smaller-pond opportunities to dip into a similar pool of inspiration, of people holding what I say with some regard, that you seem to swim in so gracefully. I, too, have faced dear, confused, despairing people who have done good in their lives, have experienced both joy and pain, who hope for something more just in this broken, unfair world and who are stuck and sad and sometimes outraged, but often, in that moment, are full of urgent longing.
<br />
<br />Like she was.
<br />
<br />So I kinda felt for you up there on the stage. And I was kinda curious about how you would handle this tender moment. I watched how you held this woman, a good forty feet and many rows of adoring fans between you and her. You listened as she told you that she was marching in the streets long before you were a gleam in your parents’ eyes. She ticked off a litany of ways in which her 80 years had been spent working for social change, strong in voice which buoyed her stature that age had bowed. There, pleading, vulnerable – more vulnerable than I was comfortable witnessing – she implored, “Tell me what to do!”
<br />
<br />Whether there was an actual hush in the crowd, I’m not sure, but my somewhat melodramatic mind has built it in. I’m pretty sure those of us there knew you did not have <span style="font-style:italic;">The</span> Answer. Yet some of us rely on your analysis, your gift for “explaining the world” as you call it, so we were ready to hear <span style="font-style:italic;">an</span> answer and we were ready to hear especially <span style="font-style:italic;">your</span> answer.
<br />
<br />And with that small, secret magical-thinking child still within us, perhaps we hoped it might be <span style="font-style:italic;">The</span> Answer.
<br />
<br />That’s a heavy burden. Even an unfair one, particularly in front of all these people, who are the people of your chosen hometown. I think it comes with the territory of having a public life, the territory of people giving your words more weight than they necessarily give to the words of others.
<br />
<br />I am one of the people who, when you asked the room how many people don’t have a television in their home, raised my hand (as you did, which did not go unnoticed or unappreciated). So I am not like my beloved aunt and uncle, who watch you faithfully and nightly. So I have to fess up that I didn’t know that you are famous for your cocktail recipes: I’m that far out of the Rachel Loop. I did sometimes listen to your Big Breakfast radio show when you were still just a local celebrity. I noticed when you went national on AirAmerica and felt a little hometown pride. Then I sort of lost track of you until the past year or two, when you kind of became a left-wing sensation and a local hero.
<br />
<br />Mostly I know you through Facebook postings: hand-picked by my FB buds, your insightful, searing commentary that make feel less helpless, less hopeless, in this politically-whacked nation. So I don’t fall under adoring fan or crazed fan or even I-knew-her-before-she-was-famous, not really.
<br />
<br />I did know that you were smart. And articulate. And wicked knowledgeable. I didn’t know you got your doctorate in England or that you are writing a real book on a real topic. I did know you have a particularly wry sense of humor that sends wonderful chills up and down my spine. I didn’t know that you were kind and generous, but I was not surprised to find this out. I think I had heard rumors about that. The valley is still a small place and probably always will be.
<br />
<br />I did not know, however, that despite your relative youth, you are wise.
<br />
<br />I like to think of myself as discerning. So I think of my personal pop culture heroines and heroes as articulate, talented, politically progressive. But wise? I’m more likely to expect that they are the exact opposite: arrogant, self-engrossed, smarmy, aloof. Another thing that seems to come with the territory.
<br />
<br />Maybe you aren’t wise. Maybe you are just good at acting wise. I’m guessing you wouldn’t cop to it and that your partner, Susan, might differ in the way that intimate partners know our shadow sides more than others and are less likely to make such grand and unilateral pronouncements. But really, you struck me as wise and I don’t say that about many people.
<br />
<br />First, as this elder from our shared community stood before you, you listened to her question. You listened intently. First step of a wise person: listen intently.
<br />
<br />Secondly, you knew that the answer was in <span style="font-style:italic;">how </span>you responded, not in <span style="font-style:italic;">what</span> you actually said. Because the fact is, there really isn’t The Answer. As unfair as that feels, it is nonetheless true. If you had indicated otherwise, I think I might have stood up and walked away. And if not walked away, then at least brought much more skepticism and disappointment. Though I’ve not read his work myself, I am awfully good at web surfing for awesome quotes and so I choose here to reference the French Nobel Laureate, Andre Gide, who said (long before Deepak Chopra tried to make it his own), “Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it.”
<br />
<br />You say that you started off as an activist, intent on changing the world. At some point, you turned on some unanticipated dime and ended up <span style="font-style:italic;">explaining the world</span>, instead. Though I do not have the skills or wherewithal to do what you do, I’m thinking that explaining the world is easier than changing it. I’m not saying what you do now is easy. ‘Cause, dear god, you make really complex, important, relevant things accessible. Just easier.
<br />
<br />Plus, you’re pretty damn gifted at it and there must be room in the Beloved Community for all of us to live into our gifts.
<br />
<br />Lastly, and this is what I hope you hold onto so that you can live long and prosper, what I imagine will be a daily choice you will have to make over and over, because your star is ascending and its arc is wide: you told us there is a limit of what you can give.
<br />
<br />You did this right after you explained the seemingly ever-expanding world of Glen Beck and his whole empire and how his influence is not only deep, but wide and vast and dangerous. You told us of the many mechanisms he (and his ilk) use to extend his destructive influence, the crazy amount of hours he works, the subterfuge he employs to spread his message, the pay-per-view presence he has established on the internet after he left Fox.
<br />
<br />Not only did you tell us that there is only so much you can do, you did so bravely and with empathy, in the face of our wanting more of you. You did so humbly, even as we did what humans do: “desperately grasp after people, places, and things, as if they can redeem us from our own suffering.”* You did it as we brought our fear of how dark the night is growing, and how we feel you not only explain the world, you illuminate our hopes. Talk about not easy.
<br />
<br />You said there is no Rachel Maddow, Incorporated, and there won’t be. You said there is no Rachel merch (though I think you haven’t been on the internet then, cause there is Rachel merch, it just must not be you who is making a buck off it). And even though the Creamery will now have a sandwich named after you, there will be no Maddow internet channel (though there are several of your cocktail how-to recipes online, which is pretty nifty).
<br />
<br />You told us that one hour a day on television (and its concomitant activities) was about all you could do. Though I must confess to the slightest shadow of disappointment, I am much more relieved to he<span style="font-style:italic;">ar it. I think you are wise for such a choice. You are wise because it isn’t just how much</span> we do, it’s <span style="font-style:italic;">how</span> we do it.
<br />
<br />And as if it were a test to see if I was paying attention to what you were saying up there, I want to let you know I heard you say that yes, making a one-hour tv show was enough, but I also seem to remember hearing that you are writing a book of substance on militarism in our country; helping to make a serious documentary what the wound of 9/11 and how our response to that wound has changed us; commuting between two dissonant homes, and sustaining a loving partnership that holds deep meaning for you. Maybe it’s not as flashy as Beck or as empir-i-manical as Rush, but it’s not chopped liver, either.
<br />
<br />Not only are you wise for it, <span style="font-style:italic;">we all are better off for it</span>.
<br />
<br />Because you don’t have The Answer, even if you have some really good, really scathing, really real answers.
<br />
<br />Because we humans don’t have a great track record of treating our prophets very well. Yeah, yeah, I know you aren’t quite yet at the status of prophet, but I think your arc might include it in a pop culture kind of way and that could get ugly on so many levels.
<br />
<br />Because it’s not like you are making it up: for it to be done right, for it to be real, for you to do what you can do (rather than some ghost writer or some hired hand), there really is a limit to what you can do. Especially if you want to stay partnered. Or happy. Or just plain sane.
<br />
<br />Because when I am swimming in my own small pond of weighted words and empathy, whether it’s when I’m social working or ministering, I will remember that people survive when you hold them and their uncertainty, their longing, their wish for you to be something that you are not while telling them that you have something, but not everything, to meet their needs. There’s always that momentary hush – even if it’s just within my own heart – but then we all breathe, together, and keep on keeping on.
<br />
<br />And that’s what I’m wishing for you.
<br />
<br />*(Stephen Prothero, God is Not One)
<br />
<br />Karen G. Johnston
<br />SpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-16263692893683199832011-08-15T16:12:00.002-05:002011-08-16T05:51:08.740-05:00Makaila, Too<span style="font-style:italic;">Water! Mama got water!</span>
<br />His finger points to her cheek,
<br />his arms, legs nest themselves
<br />where she is bent over in the chair.
<br />He cannot look at her long,
<br />but he gives what he has,
<br />a body when she is sad.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why</span> gurgles from her mouth,
<br />thudding at her feet
<br />with the sound of <span style="font-style:italic;">again</span>.
<br />
<br />Little sister has entangled her limbs
<br />in the lap of a kind stranger.
<br />She has done every task we asked,
<br />or not, without a single glance at our faces.
<br />
<br />I follow the rules, remind this mother
<br />in her florid despair
<br />we are no oracle of diagnosis.
<br />
<br />But the fear she hoped
<br />we would banish with our bag of toys
<br />has become more real,
<br />not less.
<br />
<br />Yes, it is a shame
<br />that this two-year-old refuses
<br />all food from their homeland.
<br />Sadly, this is not
<br />her only turning away.
<br />
<br />I leave them all:
<br />first-born son
<br />and now baby girl
<br />in their own worlds
<br />as their mother makes her way
<br />in this new one.
<br />
<br />
<br />(cc) Karen G. Johnston
<br />SpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-3043623618875572542011-05-30T15:30:00.001-05:002011-05-30T15:30:58.765-05:00So Many Lines of PoetrySo many lines of poetry<br />wander in and out of mind<br />as I walk s l o w l y, circumnavigating <br />what my then kiddles-now-nearly-grown<br />called “the Big Egg.”<br /><br />Right now, I am a poet who is not a poet.<br /><br />So I let each line go.<br />Several repeat silently for beauty<br />(three times if it is really good).<br /><br />Mostly, they are gone,<br />either cast away or floating off,<br />by the time my right foot<br />lifts and settles, my left foot<br />lifts and settles.<br /><br />Yet this one that you are reading<br />got caught in the strands of my hair,<br />like the leafy detritus I often find<br />after a morning of weeding and pruning.<br />Hours later, brush in hand, <br />buck naked before the mirror,<br />poetry falls to the sink, <br />carelessly settling<br />among toothbrush, hair product, <br />razor & random pen,<br /><br />a chance for momentary ink <br />before impermanence <br />fades us all.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-24081456869840687052010-10-24T14:24:00.000-05:002010-10-24T14:25:07.480-05:00Breaking the Rules of Polite CompanyA giggle, so innocent<br />at your own social impropriety.<br />Giggle because you have called <br />yourself great, aloud.<br /><br />You remember only just after<br />that there are rules about such things,<br />that we are not supposed to say<br />these thoughts aloud.<br /><br />You correct your self-referential self,<br />“More true would be to say Alice thinks she’s great.”<br /><br />I ask your age – <br />another breaking of social etiquette.<br />You tell me two possibilities,<br />plus the year of your birth,<br />which coincides with neither.<br /><br />I say, aloud,<br />“Even more accurate would be that Karen thinks Alice is great.”<br /><br />This delights you.<br />You giggle anew, <br />the girl you once were,<br />eight decades ago, <br />sitting beside me<br />when we arrive <br />at your destination.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-48428211032987270032010-10-24T14:09:00.002-05:002010-10-24T14:25:25.560-05:00Vanishing AliceThese times<br />I am only what <br />we are together.<br /><br />I am not<br />your daughter’s beloved friend<br />granddaughter’s mentor<br />your occasional preacher.<br /><br />I am <br />car ride,<br />driver from one place to the next,<br />possibility of conversation.<br /><br />I am <br />undemanding attention, <br />delight in the you of you.<br /><br />And when <br />I drop you off,<br />at the place <br />of your arrival,<br />I am <br />no longer.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-53640074690708014922010-10-16T13:30:00.006-05:002010-11-08T21:15:25.250-05:00Let the Foul Harpies Starve<span style="font-style:italic;"> The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,<br /> Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet. <br />(H.W. Longfellow’s translation of <br />Dante’s Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto XIII)</span><br /><br /><br /> <br />May their incessant <br />appetite remain unsated,<br />let them be sickened <br />at first taste, <br />let their feet catch fire<br />should they try to land<br />on the hearth <br />of your branches.<br /><br />Let them find <br />sustenance elsewhere.<br />Perhaps among those <br />who damned you<br />without ever meeting you,<br />who taunted you <br />from afar and <br />to your face,<br />those who denounced you <br />before you were even born.<br /><br />This knotting and twisting<br />we inflicted upon you<br />in this worldly hell,<br />forced within narrow confines<br />of who should love whom,<br />may it have ended the moment<br />you took your own life.<br /><br /><br />May you find the friends, <br />the allies, even the foes,<br />who know your true light, <br />and reflect it,<br />bright, shining, <br />blinding.<br /><br />May you find <br />not only the peace,<br />we could somehow <br />not afford you,<br />not only the justice<br />we denied you,<br />but the loving lover <br />meant just for you,<br />meant to make you <br />laugh ‘til you cry<br />and when you are crying,<br />make you laugh belly-busting<br />hiccupping guffaws.<br /><br />May you find that lover<br />meant to hold you,<br />to embrace the all of you,<br />the whole of you, <br />and most assuredly,<br />the queer of you.<br /><br />Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-34972331614067860412010-08-01T11:42:00.000-05:002010-08-01T11:43:48.853-05:00Cosmic Contusions: How Small, How TenderMy latest sermon can be found <a href="http://www.leamon.org/kj/index.php?itemid=48">here</a>.SpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-15677955646675934692010-07-09T22:30:00.000-05:002010-07-09T22:31:07.305-05:00Independence Day<span style="font-style:italic;">for Kate</span><br /><br /><br /> <br />There were early years <br />when it was not true<br />but I am your mother now.<br /><br />I have been for fourteen<br />of these much troubled years,<br />you just this year <br />in your majority.<br /><br />As I always have, <br />I will hold you in my arms.<br />I will drive you to the doctor<br />or the shelter<br />or the drug store for condoms.<br /><br />I will feed you dinner, <br />buy you groceries,<br />pay your heat bill, <br />brush your hair out slow.<br /><br />I’ll help you write your appointments on a calendar, <br />I’ll send for another insurance card <br />when you lose the one I just gave you.<br /><br />I will listen to your stories,<br />even when you repeat yourself,<br />even when you contradict what you just said.<br /><br />I will hold my tongue when you rant wildly,<br />I will offer gentle wisdom just when you might listen.<br />I will keep my phone on all night,<br />will read your angry texts, <br />and promise not to respond in kind.<br /><br />I will lose sleep, <br />just as I have <br />since you were little <br />and scared of the night.<br /><br />I will be the most reliable presence <br />you have ever known – <br />that will not change.<br /><br />I will laugh with you, <br />watch chick-flicks with you,<br />while I paint your toes orange.<br />I will cook for you, <br />pray with and pray for you.<br /><br />I will tell my friends about you, <br />about you and me, about my love for you,<br />about the young woman <br />you’re becoming,<br />about your confusion, <br />and mine.<br /><br />I was when you lived with me, <br />I am when you plead with me,<br />I am ever more your mother.<br /><br />But I am <br />no longer <br />your home. <br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-43951640350895176722010-06-15T21:25:00.000-05:002010-06-15T21:26:09.038-05:00I Loved You Before You were Tamebefore you knew<br />I was your mother<br />after the confusion,<br />before the trust<br /><br />I wrapped<br />my arms<br />tight<br />my legs<br />entwined<br />yours<br />holding you<br />down<br />no way<br />to hurt<br />you, me<br /><br />I loved you<br />when you were wild<br />when the bottom<br />was unreliable<br />I coaxed<br />the crooked way<br />straight,<br />tried to make<br />the rough places<br />plane<br /><br />This day,<br />much later<br />we sit in<br />kitchen aglow<br />you laugh<br />at the stories<br />of then<br /><br />oh then<br />was different<br />time<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-7836121394303684732010-04-19T20:17:00.000-05:002010-04-19T20:18:20.659-05:00love, i think of you throughout the daysometimes conceptually,<br />sometimes viscerally. <br />love, i think of you throughout the day,<br />your absence is a presence for me,<br />a wrong presence,<br />because you belong here with me now,<br />a right presence,<br />because you are where you should be<br />(as long as you return). <br /><br />love, i think of you throughout the day,<br />today, and the days before it. <br />i wallow in your absence,<br />a sow happy to have the cool mud<br />that comes from more time on my own. <br /><br />and your absence stings,<br />a sore cavity awaiting your filling.<br />love, i think of you throughout the day,<br />today, and the days to come,<br />until you arrive here,<br />home.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-12739766541027945302010-02-21T09:11:00.001-05:002010-03-04T11:27:58.250-05:00The Salve of Your VoiceMoonlight concentrates <br />the salve of your voice.<br />Morning glories surface <br />pastel-light on your face.<br />Sweat behind my knees <br />simmers mutual desires:<br />one that is now between us <br />as sheets pile at the end of the bed;<br />one which will find us here old together.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-81042043184790303662010-02-21T08:59:00.000-05:002010-02-21T09:00:41.464-05:00Quarter-Century FriendsQuarter-century friends <br />fumble virtually<br />towards conversation,<br />towards justice archaic<br />and utterly urgent.<br /><br />I feel boastful one minute, <br />lesser the next.<br />Humility and determination <br />make such odd bedfellows.<br /><br />One a reminder <br />of my soul, <br />the other <br />a manifestation:<br />each a dire message<br />that I live a life <br />not of my own making.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-58688646771152084562010-01-31T23:26:00.001-05:002010-01-31T23:27:20.011-05:00The Big LeanThe teacher says, <span style="font-style:italic;">we tend to lean into<br />the future</span>, into the what’s-next, into<br />the make-it-happen.<br /><br />Of which “we” she speaks, I’m not sure.<br />Wannabe Buddhists? All Americans?<br />Some Westerners? Upwardly-mobile people<br />who’ve been turned onto slowing down?<br /><br />I know it can’t be everyone.<br />I went to high school with people<br />still on their glory-days chase.<br />They lean back, not forward.<br /><br />Let me be more specific: I lean into the future.<br />By which I mean to say, I’ve spent my life leaning into it.<br />I’ve gotten pretty damn good at it:<br />I make a decent salary.<br />We have a roof over our heads.<br />I escaped the alcoholic haze of my childhood.<br />Some good has come of it.<br /><br />The teacher says, <span style="font-style:italic;">we lean into the future</span>.<br />When she says so, it’s clear it’s not the way to be.<br />Nevertheless, there I am: planning for the worst,<br />having learned – only later in life, and with great effort – <br />to hope for the best. All of it: leaning.<br /><br />Today, however, I sit on buckwheat zafu,<br />eleven hours among comrades <br />in the being here, being now.<br />I notice I have been leaning<br />into the future and now, I guess,<br />it’s time to straighten up.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-84929194995390151312010-01-24T22:12:00.001-05:002010-01-24T22:14:17.373-05:00Dead, My Father<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Part I</span><br />My life has been easier<br />in these two decades’ absence.<br />A calmer, quieter urgency<br />to understand all that he brought.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Part II</span><br />I spent much of December<br />anticipating the date.<br /><br />Even the first days <br />of the new year<br />had it on my mind.<br /><br />Yet today is the tenth.<br />The day came & went.<br />Slipped my notice.<br /><br />Another indication<br />that I am a better<br />poet<br /> worker<br /> wanderer<br />activist<br /> committee member<br /> mother<br /> sister<br />housekeeper<br /> lover<br /> prize fighter<br /> dog walker<br />liar<br /> speller<br /> baker<br /> candle stick maker.<br /><br />Nearly anything <br />than daughter.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-21691236451979042842010-01-24T22:09:00.000-05:002010-01-24T22:10:23.920-05:00Vanishing AliceI stand before her, talking pleasantries.<br />She does not recognize me.<br /><br />She once sought out my poetic craft.<br />She once knew me as her daughter’s dear friend.<br />She once could place me without any effort.<br /><br />No more.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-43187615631227598082010-01-24T22:03:00.001-05:002010-01-25T22:01:35.231-05:00Homage on the Occasion of a Church Engulfed in FlamesHand-me-down hymnals,<br />colors mismatched, <br />binding worn nearly bare,<br />pages yellow, soft. Gone.<br /><br />Cushions filled with horse hair, straw.<br />So much more went into them ~<br />inadvertent blood prick,<br />graciously efforted sweat,<br />ancient and renewed tears.<br />None, not even remnant.<br />All gone.<br /><br />Gone, too, <br />the pulpit,<br />the piano, <br />the pews.<br /><br />Gone, the quilt <br />called stained glass,<br />called healing, <br />called blessed.<br /><br />I am no lover of Christ.<br />Yet there are times <br />I have found myself,<br />wanting to walk with Jesus.<br />I have found him here<br />among you.<br /><br />I had come <br />other times,<br />twice so dire<br />when divine calling<br />was too much <br />for these bones <br />to bear.<br /><br />Now, in winter shadow<br />of single charred edifice,<br />the Parish House gathers<br />its motley crew,<br />some here since dawn,<br />others not seen in years.<br /><br />Through distortion<br />of clear window panes,<br />the firefighters sentinel,<br />pacing the smolder<br />of what was lost.<br /><br />Shepherd poet preaches,<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">We’ll keep our perspective.<br />(And the bell.) </span><br />No Haitian rumbling here, <br />yet the sound<br />of singing together,<br />of sighing together,<br />of seeking together,<br />is deafening, <br /><br />making mute <br />any poem whispering<br />from this pen,<br />offered as tribute <br />to the gift<br />you are.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-5863241795440293842010-01-16T13:07:00.002-05:002010-01-24T21:59:34.700-05:00How to Save a LifePlace compost closer <br />to the house,<br />not halfway down<br /> the halfacre lawn.<br />Let winter say <span style="font-style:italic;">fie</span> <br />to the effort,<br />the rotting food scraps <br />will be gleeful<br />in their internal <br />near-combustion.<br />This year, <br />no worms will find <br />their fate as dry skins<br />on the cellar’s dirt floor.<br /><br />Rake yellow asparagus <br />stalks away,<br />bundle-up <br />the blighted tomato <br />vines.<br />Do not burn. <br />Instead, place in <br />plastic bag, feed<br />the already-toxic landfill,<br />even if it sounds <br />very wrong <br />to do so.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />How to save a life.</span><br /><br />Get weekly news <br />from Peter Sagal and pals,<br />daily news <br />from Jon Stewart et al.<br />Laughter should outweigh <br />sorrow just enough<br />to keep the heart <br />beating.<br /><br />Lay down sword <br />and shield, <br />lay down burden <br />by the riverside.<br />Then stop <br />the damn Congress <br />from funding more <br />troops to Afghanistan. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />How to save a life.</span><br /><br />CPR. QPR. DNR. RSVP.<br />(Okay, maybe not RSVP.)<br /><br />Stay with him.<br />Comfort his clumsy<br />stumble-lorn despair.<br /><br />Leave him.<br />Let him learn<br />the lonely lesson.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />How to save a life.</span><br /><br />Toss a coin.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-78926917220023258552010-01-03T19:58:00.001-05:002010-01-03T20:00:03.190-05:00Like Each Night, Wild and Inescapabledo you not close up<br />in hopes of opening again?<br />Do you not open,<br />in hopes that eventually,<br />if only temporarily, <br />you will close?<br /><br />Life is treacherous,<br />stinging like the surprising<br />winter thorn.<br />It is bitter,<br />coffee on cold morning lips.<br />Full of empty promise,<br />adhering atmosphere<br />with the weight of its void.<br /><br />Yet, thorns, <br />even those hidden <br />in the yarn of warm mitten,<br />and soft aging flesh,<br />avail themselves<br />to the tweezers' pinch.<br /><br />And bitter taste at lover’s kiss<br />is not unexpected, thus<br />melts into pulsing honey.<br /><br />Breath breathes <br />over and over,<br />dark or light,<br />day or night,<br />open and closed.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-81297352907233643862010-01-03T19:44:00.001-05:002010-01-03T19:46:27.183-05:00NitroglycerinEven refrigerated,<br />the little pills -- <br />two-decades old -- <br />can’t bring him back.<br /><br />They do, however,<br />ignite my story.<br /><br />I am clear-sighted enough<br />not to tell his widow –<br />her need for dead-him<br />stronger than her love for still-here-me;<br />my not-need strong enough<br />for what-she-can, what-she-can’t.<br /><br />So, instead I sit<br />with the fuzzy-headed<br />newly tumor-free aunt.<br />She grew up<br />in the same fear,<br />different damage.<br />She surfaces,<br />her sister sinks.<br /><br />My uncle,<br />her husband,<br />walks, talks<br />pontificates, <br />breathes.<br /><br />The nitro<br />in his pocket<br />stands a chance<br />of working.<br /><br />This is the one<br />worth keeping.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-77558374939796676402009-11-15T22:20:00.002-05:002010-01-03T19:44:23.614-05:00There Is No Fixing ItI have an eye that weeps.<br />It started a decade ago, <br />increases with each passing year.<br />Cold air sets it off. <br /><br />It is a biologic process,<br />one not dependent upon tender feeling,<br />yet this poet’s eye cannot help<br />but see metaphor everywhere,<br />even when blurred by unbidden tears.<br /><br />Should there exist<br />a medical intervention<br />to cease the steady flow,<br />I think I would decline it.<br /><br />Why shouldn’t I cry?<br />Cherubic baby’s face emerges <br />from behind father’s shoulder,<br />so evident her dead mother’s visage.<br />Belligerent fifteen-year-old disappears<br />with her infant, having been, for years,<br />pimped out by her cousin.<br /><br />Shouldn’t we all be allowed to weep?<br />Public radio matter-of-factly promises <br />to tell me about the corpse trade in Iraq.<br />Glow of the sun turns poison,<br />the least among us most harmed,<br />but none of us saved.<br /><br />I am not supposed to allow<br />the luxury of despair<br />to leave me paralytic. <br />I will try.<br /><br />Nevertheless, allthesame,<br />I weep.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-55244243532432495732009-10-18T12:43:00.001-05:002009-10-18T12:46:16.026-05:00Today’s Guest HouseI do not court disenchantment,<br />yet she is at the door.<br /><br />I could shut her out,<br />close curtains, cut the lights,<br />sit in the furthest corner,<br />Pendleton wool covering my shoulders, <br />rocking back and forth.<br /><br />Even the thought of it is soothing.<br /><br />I could. <br /><br />I won’t.<br /><br />At the gesture of my open palm,<br />I wonder what she will do,<br />as she crosses the threshold.<br /><br />I will not tighten my arms to my trembling torso,<br />but wrap them around her graceful waist,<br />usher her in with a ballroom twirl of surrender<br />to the mystery my teacher tells me to embrace.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-24195723115859930842009-09-29T21:32:00.002-05:002009-09-29T21:37:52.406-05:00Friends in their Forties<span style="font-style:italic;">for Tom</span><br /><br />Shafts of Indian summer<br />warm your face, <br />my neck.<br /><br />You speak <br />of your mother,<br />ever the parent, <br />even until the very end,<br />showing all of you<br />how to pass <br />with grace.<br /><br />As we hugged good-bye,<br />I said with my truest breath,<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">we have only thirty years.</span><br /><br />Only thirty years <br />to work out <br />some similar feat.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">We should start <br />figuring out now<br />how to die.</span><br /><br />I meant it.<br /><br />I mean it still.<br />And I mean, too,<br />that maybe <br />we have <br />only until<br />tomorrow.<br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-58329743102906833092009-09-24T12:12:00.000-05:002009-09-24T12:13:10.868-05:00Ode to OtisSuch joy, beholding this creature<br />attempting to scale river rocks<br />without success, yet he is not <br />one bit discouraged.<br /><br />He and I have known<br />each other only <br />seven weeks now.<br />At first he found<br />all the gaps in our old<br />wire fence and he ran.<br /><br />Ran he did,<br />just five days after we<br />brought him home from the shelter.<br />I spent a long hour in despair of his return.<br /><br />Return he did, and now he runs less often.<br />We have repaired most of the escape routes,<br />but clearly not yet all.<br /><br />Still he does not often run away, <br />he just lies in the fall sun, content.<br /><br />This morning, Indian summer full upon us, <br />we walk along the pristine gorge.<br />Despite the sign’s order otherwise,<br />I have taken off the leash.<br />His harness and collar jingle ~ <br />he is by no means a wild thing,<br />this boy who craves my love ~<br />but he chooses his own direction.<br /><br />Much to my delight,<br />it is always<br />the same as mine.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2720151690964785133.post-32764309714199890522009-09-20T21:49:00.001-05:002009-09-25T11:43:14.516-05:00Our Own Potter's FieldThick scaly bark, these trees are old.<br />Impossible to know just how old,<br />since yew boughs hollow as they age.<br />Three make a canopy of bright berries, <br />crimson constellations suspended overhead.<br />As guides, these stars aren’t much use.<br /><br />All parts of the plant are so poisonous, <br />save the dark seed within each red star,<br />that after ingestion, symptoms leading to death ~<br />staggering gait, muscle tremors, spasms ~<br />are often missed before terminal collapse.<br />Horses are most vulnerable, none but birds are safe.<br /><br />Next to me, the cold bench memorializes<br />the burial ground this serene hillside might be.<br />I can’t help but wonder about the dying patients<br />from the State Lunatic Hospital at Northampton.<br />No rapid onset: only slow convulsed demise, largely unnoted.<br /><br />Just a few days ago, I marveled at how the next field over<br />used to hold an abundance of pumpkins in September,<br />then late October, a bevy of children learning<br />the fine art of New England gleaning.<br />How one year there was a ragged La-Z-Boy ~<br />some collegiate prank or attempted performance art.<br />Around here, you can never be sure.<br />Now the meadow rolls, four shades<br />of green, one dappled lavender.<br /><br />Some will not even consider purchase of a house<br />on the village hill two over from this one.<br />The collisions of beleaguered spirits too much<br />for the harmony of hearth and home.<br /><br />Unsure if this is meditation or lamentation,<br />I set down novice feet, one after the other.<br />Heel, ball, toe. H e e l, b a l l, t o e.<br />Underneath: collapsed dirt has wended its way<br />from bone to soil, sinew to loam, flesh to earth.<br />I wonder how to make luminous these toxic rubies:<br />those just over my head in the sentinel trees, <br />those deep below my feet in each and every unmarked grave.<br /><br /><br />(cc) Karen G. JohnstonSpecKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14751307549449286965noreply@blogger.com0