Bela's Bright Ideas Too

SLAM

2011-05-30T15:12:00.001-10:00

Closing the door or chapter: the irony!

What is yearned for, in sudden disbelief

quickly rejected out of hand, a

cicada fighting to hold onto popping skin …

The unexpected folded twenty stuck

absentmindedly into deep wool of winter pockets,

only to reveal itself a miracle upon

rediscovery the following Fall ...

Right Here.

Right Now. In the

eleventh hour perhaps,

loneliness begets community.

Isolation flowers into fullness.

Mind manufacturing excuses, justifications,

retrospective backstory;

sliding door, past to present, over again –

kaleidoscopically exchanging one for the other,

pulling up tent stakes and

moving on like Bedouins

traveling over tides or shifting desert dunes ...

Mimics of motion focused into

cavernous wilderness of intention,

never domesticated,

never satisfied, and

why should we yield to boredom?

What is real, if not all of it, is none.

Anything birthed in imagination

bursts forth into animation, a

Genesis story unfolding;

Secret lives like insects in

long grasses crushed underfoot through

sheer ignorance or

Nurtured in recognition, examination,

cultivation.

image: onepixelsquare

RAMBLE IN THREE

2011-05-30T14:26:00.002-10:00

In the course of turning pages of historical fiction, dire lives of people I shall never meet burst fully into consciousness, blooming like peonies in the morning sun, tossing blossom heads in unexpected currents of chilled air, raising hackles like a ghost from a past I could never have dreamed into being. (When did the fine bones on the backs of these well tanned, spotted hands abruptly and without warning pop clear through surprised, receding flesh?)

Jolted awake to creases of fragile dessicated tissue surrounding sunken orbs, armoring piqued sensitivities like scales on a fish; how I scuttle behind a veil of joy at broaching the splendor of a new dawn! Windows to the soul, alternating between scanning still horizon and listing endlessly over horizontal frames of text, devouring wisdom while digesting experience like a time traveler launched into the present and ducking back again, over and over as a hand stitches patterns through the tapestries of yesteryear …

III

How sudden and profoundly paradigms collide, transient sound bites from divergent voices, all coexisting simultaneously like the rush of protons and neutrons in the heart of the atom, swarming like Saxons assaulting the misty green slopes of Avalon … all traverse the same continuum. Time and tide and space and chronicle, the breath rushing into tiny fibrillary sacs of the human lung quickly as it gushes out, collapsing into ragged gasps of the dying, bursting acrid into tiny thrashing forms of the newly born ~

Rust and riddle,

dearth and flow;

joy and ecstasy,

reap and mow;

Maiden and Mother,

Crone, she now wears a

crown of orchids laced in

thorny black hair.

Bustle and platitude,

rustle of skin; silence.

The quiet.

Outside, now In.

image: Edgar Degas

OSAMA DREAM

2011-05-04T18:00:00.002-10:00

Whiskered carp, churning in their

too-small bowl. One

light and girdled gold – the other

charcoal-dark, unremarkable.

Steam rises from the vessel as if

boiling – nevermind contrast of

chill in the crisp

blue air

surrounding.

Creaking bamboo sways time to

rubicund lips, rhythmically breaking

surface tension -

mumbling, as it were,

nothing we could understand.

Small-framed man,

collar bones protruding from

veined lily-flesh,

strides purposefully

forward, net in hand.

Dark fish seined,

barely a struggle.

White carp remains,

circling.

Circling.

~ copyright 2011, Bela Johnson
image: koi-blog.com

Note: This poem was synthesized from a much longer, involved dream I had, two weeks before the capture of Bin Laden. I didn't think much of it until after the fact, then realized it might have been precognitive.

DROUGHT

2011-04-26T13:54:00.001-10:00

Time seems to bestow

all that is necessary, and yet ...

Something in the skin, tight

draw of busy-ness that

sparks imagination –

stimulates regions of the brain to

kick out paradox:

Golden. Green.

Straw-like fields shimmer in

incessant heat;

mirage-makers.

Palms sway half-heartedly;

heavy-laden with swollen

issue - reluctant to drop free,

unburdening overtaxed hosts.

Even the neighborhood dogs lie

utterly mute, conserving

frenetic energies for

what’s essential.

Wind, though welcome,

further hastens the

dessication of landscape,

striking contrast to deep

turquoise waters

quivering, just

below the horizon.

TAPESTRY

2011-04-26T13:48:00.002-10:00

It might as well be a shroud.

Confusion of tapestry woven daily in

knobbly hues – threads pulled

straight when ease marks the course –

twisted and frayed when

impaired.

How many acres of worries it

covers! Like prayer beads worn

shiny with use –

stitched string upon

string until, alarmed,

I buckle under its bulk.

I want to conceal every footpath,

leaving no trace – a

sandstorm scouring;

undulating desert dunes.

Instead tracks are buried,

grooved deep in our

collective grey matter;

awaiting wings,

seeking flight on the

thermals of our

liberation.

image: Vladimir Gorsky

WILD THINGS

2011-04-25T17:00:00.001-10:00

Jumble of images cycling

Clear through my head,

unbidden. And what is unbidden

erupts into consciousness only with

recognition.

(What do I want?)

If desire only serves to

direct focus on an

unmet future having no

basis in arrival until it

gains the present -

If Now is All, then:

here, along with Outlook,

cultivate focused

Intent.

Sustaining presence in what

Is.

Instead.

Persistent desire to

dim-numb to a

universal thrum-drum -

Wandering Minstrel mind.

Forever on The Quest,

returning

again and again -

bound for

hinterlands of the

archetypal forest -

stalking ignominious beasts,

dragging carcass after

carcass back to

pleated drawing rooms of the

human brain.

Image: Maurice Sendak

FLAWLESS

2011-04-20T05:37:00.000-10:00

I yearn for the perfect form to offer you, lover.

Mine remains in violation thereof –

lumps of flesh slung on my thighs like one of

Rubens’ women –

Can’t I simply value what lies

Inside, without this

floundering distraction of

Age?

I know, you never loved me for

flawless. It’s my own fragile

precipice, thrust out

over our

generation gap –

A black-winged

bird of prey,

rapping persistently on my

bleached-white skull,

craving sustenance and

resounding hollow.

STRANGE FRUIT

2011-04-20T04:57:00.002-10:00

Befuddled, indolent -

walking into the garden,

she wept.

Hidden from view,

longing to be nurtured,

carrying her burdened

heart like a

small purple

cabbage pulled

fresh and

perfect from the

loamy earth.

Fruit dangling

overhead,

overripe for

picking -

pendulous globes she

could not grasp and

would not accept.

Bounty of the harvest.

Didn’t know

How.

Nobody ever taught, amidst

rules and madness, the

rights, wrongs, and

you’ll be sorrys –

Never told her it was

All right to

receive.

DARKROOM

2010-09-11T17:52:00.000-10:00

The toothpaste tube lies

strangled in the clutter of

bathroom utility. He

craves the taste, reminds him of

teaberry leaves plucked from

rich forest floors of his youth.

Mind goes sailing, tacking back –

launched like a great

unfurling canvas, snapping smartly in a

gale force wind.

Black and white days,

recalled like negatives placed in

rectangular trays, gripped by

tongs of memory and jostled

gently in the dark, urging them

indelibly into being.

- photo credit: blogs.elsweb.org

LITTLE ME AND BIG BLUE

2010-09-03T14:22:00.008-10:00

If I drown in the ocean

If I die in this way

If I slide low and deep

I’d feel lucky today.

If I dive in the water

If I crash in that wave

If the sands pull me under

I’d feel happy to stay.

Life would lack certain meaning

with respect due to you -

Let no fear come between

little me and Big Blue.

Chanting this little ditty to myself on the way home from a long swim in the indigo waters off the north shore of the Big Island, I realize how very lucky I am to live in some of the last vestiges of Old Hawaii. Paradise does indeed exist, and it remains, at least for me, in places such as this - not in the crowded streets, shops and beach snippets of Alii Drive.

At first I had to get past going down to and swimming off of these abandoned concrete docks – having roamed parts of the world in the past fifty years where reefs still thrived with hundreds of species of brightly colored fish – where black and white-tipped sharks lurked in caves threaded through with moray eels; where starfish dotted ocean floors. I remember running beach sand through my tiny fingers, feeling the texture of billions of cast-off skeletons of crustaceans, walking endless stretches of abandoned, pristine beach, picking up more shells of a greater variety than I had pockets to collect. When years later I had children of my own, we reveled in rolling ourselves in the runoff of red Hawaiian clay that streamed down to the white crested surf, then rolling ourselves in sand like sugar cookies.

Many times I have stood on the asphalt and concrete overlooking the ocean near our home – wondering how we could transform it into a different landscape. Now I accept it warts and all, and simply dive into the delightful sea below. Lately these waters have hosted schools of baby barracuda and pipefish, parrotfish and yellow tang. Urchins punctuate the rocks below, regenerating and maturing since the last floor robbers came with their giant orange net bags, sweeping the area stark naked clean. A giant anchor and chain remain from sugar mill days, lending navigation to the depths below. Follow the chain, turn either left or right at its end, and you will cruise along the reef, companion to a smattering of unicorn fish and other reef inhabitants. Seek the depths beyond at your own risk. The currents on this part of the island are perilous enough to prevent even the largest boats from exploring its waters at will. The ancient Polynesian outrigger canoe was better suited than most modern seafaring vessels for traveling the blue road from destination to island destination. And yet only the tug and barge, listing high and sometimes vertical on the roil of blue-grey waves during times of tumult, are a constant in the here and now. For without them, commerce would cease and we truly would regress to the grass huts of yore.

The Alanuihaha Channel is world-famous for its danger and unpredictability. Poised between the looming precipices of Haleakala and Mauna Kea, both exceeding 12,000 feet, this is a channel of changing tides, high winds, volatile seas. Still, the best approach is to become familiar. Befriend the ocean, respect her. There are days and then, there are days. Today was such a day. Calm, windless and warm, even in the early hours of morning. What has brought the worst drought in memory has likewise gifted us with deep and clear blue cloudless skies and relatively still waters. What has robbed animals of dense emerald fodder and long drinks in cool ditch water has given us this day. Mahukona, “sugar boiler,” is shining forth like a young bride at her wedding.

Most dedicated swimmers living on the islands keep a bag filled with fins, mask, snorkel and suit on hand. Today that kind of backup seems most useful. After sitting and watching for a few minutes, then spotting a tiny clutch of swimmers like mask-and-snorkeled dolphins cruising the reef’s edge, I plop awkwardly in. There is no fear for me in the depths. Some seize up when feet fail to meet floor. For me it means weightless, boundless joy. I flip and turn, readjusting my mask, twisting my spine and hips, stretching my body out full. Finally I reach out, stroke after stroke, along the chain and now, for the first time, to the left. Unchartered terrain fails to intimidate, especially since the surge is all but absent from the surf. I am certain not to get dashed to the concrete jetty, as could assuredly happen in adverse circumstances. I am rewarded with clarity and variety. Popping up like a cork to the surface, I spot a brown skinned man casting a line from the sharp lava rocks ahead. Eyes sweep the shoreline, seeking out a young couple cuddled close, eyes fixated upon the horizon. Back under and out, skirting the depths, neck craned up and out, visibility extending its reach. It is this technique that rewards me with an occasional giant manta or honu, sea turtle. Not today, though I am far from disappointed.

I could swim like this for hours, for days. Like Andersen’s Little Mermaid, I am torn between the magic of the deep and the pull to terra firma, like some prehistoric sea creature transforming itself into a land-walking amphibian, fins morphing into heavy land limbs. Stroking my way back to the dock ladder, not quite ready, not yet. I toss my fins and mask onto the hot cement and now, free of the onus of rubber, I turn, flip, arch, pivot, pike, roll, play. There is no temptation to wander far from what is known, just enough freedom to set the mind back to neutral. Decision made, I draw the heaviness of skeleton and skin onto earth once again, making transition after transition, back home, clock ticking, laptop waiting, stomach grumbling.

BORDERLAND

2010-06-10T09:42:00.005-10:00

Cushy leather and circumstance -

suspended between memorable and

something other –

perched within spitting distance,

looking newly turned out from

behind museum glass:

Mother. Pale, slim, long jet black hair

twisted into perfect chignon;

double pearl headband setting off

slim porcelain neck, heavy laden with

Victorian chains, charms –

rose-red floor length garb sweeping to

boot-clad feet, right side hiked up to reveal

chartreuse skirt under. Sits down to tat.

Tat.

Tropical weather soaring deep into the eighties,

extreme humidity trickling off my temples.

Dad. Overdressed for the weather, otherwise

unremarkable.

First son arrives: sweaty, haunted-lovely,

fragile calla lily sporting

waist length mane of ebony hair;

skateboard cocked under one arm,

pristine white cufflinked dress shirt,

neck cinched in Sunday tie.

Gabardine slacks,

stockings, wingtips.

Religion comes to mind.

They take it up, the bone –

seeking confirmation from the other.

Denied. Son rebuts heatedly -

trusses, collar ties, hurricanes –

all wrong.

On and on, back and forth, as if

no one watches.

We all do.

Mother gets up when things escalate,

strides around bookshelves,

back to tat.

Tat.

Into the fray slinks another male,

broad in build – luxurious

undulating black locks fall to waist,

cinched in a thong.

Polished acetate, retro -

fades silently into odd clutch of kin -

familiar animal in its den,

circling for comfort and finding none.

Father glances up briefly,

minutes later - Hey.

En garde - Touché!

Heads turning, squirming in the

squalor of combat, unsure how to be;

public spectacle.

VEXATION

2010-04-25T21:49:00.002-10:00

The bleached

bone white of the

arctic fox appears -

ghostlike in the glinting

reflection of glass blocks.

Sapphire eyes glow

deep in sockets,

guard hairs rising –

flushed free from

chilled body

accustomed to their

protection.

And I will come

here again -

always with the

same result.

BREACH

2010-04-25T21:35:00.004-10:00

Between cinder cone mountains and the

solid feel of dog body nudging my ribs

lies earth.

The sea thrusts herself upon it like the

useless labors of Sisyphus - forever.

Wild whitecaps assail her surface and a

clutch of charcoal grey humpbacks,

slick barnacled bodies dancing above

indigo waters, carries on as if

no one is watching.

Mouth involuntarily creases,

corners turn upward;

heart grows lighter.

For no matter what burdens are

moored in harbor, the

melting of sea and sky provide anchor -

transport the soul into sublime and

weightless horizons.

Grateful how gravity bonds to

flesh inhabited solely for the

pleasure it gives in bearing

witness to it all.

image credit cornforthimages.com

SPIRAL GALAXY

2010-04-12T09:20:00.002-10:00

She pedals her bicycle through

moonlight – night swelling inky black,

unfathomable.

Billions of stars pulse possibilities.

Skull tablet-blank,

punctuated now with a

violable litany of random thoughts -

staggering through doorways leading

circuitously into the present,

hoping to entertain a

night rainbow of dreams.

SHUFFLED

2010-04-12T08:46:00.002-10:00

Behind a foil of curtainous hair, she

gazes up – startled

out of reverie, thoughts

exploding in her head like a

thousand blown lightbulbs:

useless.

Recoiling from awareness,

slips glibly into fantasy - parallel

existence sustaining what cannot

will itself into being.

None of it matters.

Loss and gain measured only by the

gods of mirth, not sensibility.

In a twist of irony,

absentmindedly lays cool

hand alongside curved neck,

ponders the pulsing artery

lying just there under

fragile blue-white skin -

Budding heart unfolds like the

thousand petaled lotus,

gestating a symphony.

CATCH AND RELEASE

2010-04-12T08:39:00.004-10:00

There she goes, hemorrhaging

incendiary thoughts once more -

regurgitated from memory,

half-truths strong as the

lies memorized until they

crystallize into story

imbibed around

borders of believability.

Lifeboat listing fore and

aft, unsteady footing seeking

sacred ground, what feels

unshakeable.

Toward evening, a cardinal’s

insistent chirping slices silence –

madrigal heralding spring.

- photo credit Brent Murray (www.brentmurray.com)

Whiff

2010-03-19T15:03:00.008-10:00

The mind is cluttered with many small things -

Bookmarks from memorable shops, a

cloth impregnated with scent,

lubricant for the imagination.

Small vessel crafted by

hands of a child in that

drafty, cavernous home -

Bells lashed to the necks of lambs,

keeping them close to the flock.

Colored photographs of Mother

lifting images from frames with

detached curiosity.

Who is this woman who bore her?

Whose hopes and dreams accompanied

fetal development? Was she

spoken to aloud,

caressed across barrier of

skin and temperament,

animated by longing or ambivalence,

attenuated to body of earth and sky?

Mirror

2010-03-19T14:47:00.006-10:00

Wonder why writers seem a

dark lot - bottom feeders

sucking in morsels while

spitting out words

cobbled together like a

negative, painstakingly developing into a

mental map of the world or

fragments thereof ...

Carousel in motion, a

cloud drifting by -

bottom of the ocean seeking

sand in an

azure sky.

My-ku

2010-03-19T14:36:00.006-10:00

First day on the job, it's

living, just - and

writing some.

Turn out the lights!

Patterns blind me to

what ignites

imagination.

FRONTIER

2010-02-26T06:34:00.002-10:00

There is some pain that never heals.

Youth erased by violence can

reclaim itself in later life. A

frozen heart can thaw on the

sweet lips of a new lover.

Sentiment can shed its

cloak of flesh and

survive in homage.

Trees hold history in their veins.

Bark stained with the

imprint of another era,

before the frontier

disappeared from memory.

Human blood, redwood sap

mingle to awaken the spirits -

Best left to moan in drenched reverie,

dissolving in the drone of the

endless, twisted highway.

LADY OF THE LAKE

2010-02-26T06:03:00.005-10:00

The hills lay sideways like a

sleeping woman -

Hips colored now in

showy hue, before

winter strips her

back to

skin and bone.

Caught in waiting,

hair tipped with a million

blazing stars and

fog laced over her crown –

Steam rising from the mouths of

fishermen trained on traps,

ignorant of the sensuous

body so brazenly

revealed before them,

not amazed.

Yet a few unknowingly take

heed and, with each

sideways glance, each

fluttered eyelash - Her

variegated image registers on the

tipped lens of the

human retina - and a

patient vigil, though

unchanged to the eye, lays

tracks in the heart.

OLDER

2010-01-21T10:10:00.005-10:00

Looking beyond surface, whether

smooth, disquiet or creased –

does not arise spontaneously.

Only now, when life has

forced my hand, do I

seek source in

everyone.

No fault or even intention,

culture coursing

strong through the blood –

genetics stronger. And though soul has

ever yearned to freely feel, this

person that I have become glimpses,

only in scattered fragments, the

nature of self -

never mind another.

But when clarity comes, it

ignites, sparks inside.

In that well worn

face is another myself –

one who has laughed, loved,

quarreled and sexed,

interpreted the world through

mask and mayhem - yet we

share in common wonder, awe,

the same uncertainties -

pounding of blood in the

temples, shedding of

youth and even longing –

until life, like the soil,

wrests us under and we break

free of flesh to

rejoin cosmos as

glittering atoms of awareness,

imploding through time, space and,

for all we know,

eternity.

(photo Scott Nearing - peaceworkmagazine.org)

TECHNO FAILURE

2010-01-21T10:07:00.001-10:00

I should bend to technology.

Thrill to smart clink produced when

perfectly flat pot belly

flops onto glass,

illuminated by electric

spirals of heat.

Instead I long for blue fire, the

sizzle of condensation’s kiss,

living flame.

Yearn to heft iron cast onto

burner grate – vessel requiring

special washing, swipe of

olive oil onto pitted base,

crusted like asphalt from

generations of

honest service.

KINDNESS

2010-01-21T10:02:00.002-10:00

... cannot be bought, bestowed or

begged, it needs to be

learned if not

innate to the spirit.

When all is exhausted,

manipulations useless, when

means by which the wit is worn

threadbare – it may

appear, then vanish with just

one

minute

obstacle.

Yet, when adversity and travail leave

no doubt the humanity we

share in common,

It emerges –

meekly at first, then

stronger, like a stranger

coming forth from

too long in shadow – a

dear, lost companion,

returned to make merry and

awaken one into

life more

fully.

ANTS

2010-01-21T09:56:00.004-10:00

The mind loves detail or

accepts it, long as it

rhymes or carries a tune, catchy like some

Madison Avenue doughnut dirge –

Gathers like storm clouds on the horizon,

picking up energy, speed,

endurance – then

pounding, plodding - an

army of fiery ants,

nesting in the folds of grey matter,

marching straight through the

poison bait and

into the sugar bowl.

image copyright Alex Grey

SLEEP

2010-01-21T09:48:00.005-10:00

We did not do it well.

slumbering in the darkness,

tripping over minefields of the past -

Days Gone By.

Withering evening bids us entry, but

to where?

Unknown territory of the gods, we

cannot control

that landscape.

Restless sleep

guarantees remembrance, making

that world into this -

Reality becomes distorted,

Lingering between dawn and

dreading dusk.

WORD

2009-12-28T09:11:00.006-10:00

Wheel turns, hands clutch the

face of time caught

stretching its wings.

Creativity shelved when

circumstance inserts itself.

Mundane acts,

excuses for living, rob

breath meant for

beauty’s expression.

How much energy spills when we

attempt to cull kindness from the

rubble of relationship? What is

left of right action when

another’s blindness

robs us of the light?

Inside a small flicker sets

fire to the soul, flames

licking insides clean.

And then,

warmed by wisdom,

she takes flight.

DEAD TULIPS

2009-12-28T08:57:00.002-10:00

Folded over in defeat they lie,

backs broken –

testament to paradox.

Brilliant crimson, black

kaleidoscope centers -

perfection amidst decay.

Isn’t it time to face the

inevitable? Resist the

impulse to improve?

Silent sedge and flower

accept place betwixt

bud and beyond,

bowing to the

grace that sustains while the

sun streams golden halos on

field and forest.

- Copyright Bela Johnson, 2009

CLARION CALL

2009-10-20T16:04:00.003-10:00

It’s easy to scapegoat anything to

avoid the discomfort of

knowing something.

Meanwhile halfway across the world,

a woman seethes with discontent,

appears in dreams

skinning otters.

Man with the cowboy hat

displeases her, unsettles. She

steps back, reflects – who holds the

Power to heal, the

Power to harm?

As the skinning flint drops from her

trembling hand, a glow emanates.

Awakened, she begins taking

control of her destiny.

photo credit: http://bioweb.uwlax.edu/bio203/s2008/bluske_brit/

PUZZLE

2009-10-20T15:22:00.005-10:00

Purposely intent on dissolving barriers

between them,

hot in pursuit of a fantasy, she

travels – not in time or space but

colliding her home into his.

Preternaturally.

Weaving words into borders so

strong they contain her willfulness –

Misguided missives rendering thinking

insoluble.

Light slanting through the

open window showers dust motes like

wisdom.

TREED

2009-10-18T23:58:00.003-10:00

To be inside one’s head trying to

converse – nothing insignificant and yet

too much fullness in what

cannot be candidly expressed.

Caught here and

beyond human meandering – the

other being completely unknowable yet

startling, indelible –

Trying too hard and then snapping that

tenuous thread – easy distraction to

one who doesn’t probe or

want anything.

Vapid longing like

hydrogen seeking

one atom of oxygen.

Now trees on the other hand –

we share an arbor mentality, a

greenness of spirit – the

universal language of leaves.

No pretense or striving to be

anything and yet standing,

wet with truth,

form in the formless –

relying on common

perceptions that allow us to

exist in the

heart of creation.

SINCE YOU ASKED

2009-10-18T23:52:00.002-10:00

Corn reminds me of tilling soil,

pushing kernels into ground

damp with newly exposed skin,

fragrant as a newborn day.

Mopping brow as

mosquito drone pierces ears,

socks, shoes and wool meant to

ward off the spring chill –

Exciting baby grackles in

joyful chorus on half-rotten

fenceposts set to keep out

deer and lazy raccoons who return,

along with mature crows, to

feast on midsummer’s harvest.

A VERY SHORT TALE

2009-10-18T23:28:00.005-10:00

Pain in profile, she ditched a job in the city for a

life she couldn’t dream.

Left the town where she was born and

brought up,

carefully amputating history, just in case the

danger of new demands would

reveal her.

Wild-haired, green eyed and just over forty, she

pined half a lifetime for a different outlook, more

streamlined and less

wiry and broad-backed.

Her temperament, though

nothing could be changed, was

prickly and

intolerant.

If anyone could see her now at seventy,

they would grit teeth and bear

anything, any amount of

discomfort and

suffering, just to avoid

becoming what she most

represented in a human being –

laconic,

dull-witted and

waiting to shed loathsome

flesh for the

promise of a life in the

hereafter which, she already

knew to the marrow,

dwelt only in feverish

imagination.

WELL MET

2009-10-01T19:42:00.003-10:00

Strange fruit, shape and

husks like the mottled

purple-white breasts of

small dying birds,

scattered on asphalt.

Running together,

death and

life in the avenue.

That we choose one

over the other,

fight like cancer to linger in

this place –

affirms daily the experiment.

To validate, rather than destroy -

whether with arms, words or

intention, the inviolate

right of our fellows -

procures delight in

earthly pleasures on

nature’s own terms.

(photo: Amanda Johnson)

NO PRISONERS

2009-09-13T22:46:00.003-10:00

In conquering nothing,

Pain heals. In not

presupposing the

dance of the gods,

Magic happens.

I turn my back and

sunshine spills from the

darkest of skies.

LOOSE

2009-09-13T22:42:00.004-10:00

As one who has been drawn into the

demon’s lair long ago, I suffer

now the injustice. All is

not fair in love, there are

hearts of unmet

many yet to be broken.

Is it thus in nature, a

base urge leading us to

recreate The Fall? It’s

Over if we let

greedy souls alone, feed our own

mounding desires, picturesque in their

longing – leave at bay those glittering

dogs of decorum who mock and

sneer, drool hanging from

terse jaw and pursed lip –

Pleasure lies in self-effacing acts

fulfilling creation’s prompting and, in this,

discover insanity’s timely end.

THE BACK SIDE OF PAPER

2009-09-13T22:38:00.002-10:00

Try writing on the

back side of paper. Flip it

over, the words

bloom before

astounded eyes into

buttercups, fragrant in

vibrant egg yolk hues, not

confused by sound or

too much light -

Rejoicing in the day, in the

open sky that endlessly

surrounds them in

cerulean shades more

sumptuous than what could

ever be found in the

artist’s palette.

AMERICAN DREAM

2009-09-13T22:30:00.005-10:00

The greyblack clouds hover, pressing

down iron curtains of the mind,

sending steam shooting from

holes in a troubled sky -

Pffft! Pffft!

Old black mammy with

tied-up braids and plaid

kerchief gathers

pale-faced babes to

ample breast – little one treads

behind now as her mentor firmly pokes

small green shoots into

rich dark loam – stands mute as

metal, hardly knowing

what to do.

Momma sits blank and

drawn on the back porch,

chipping small ruby crescents from

milky fingertips; gathers tobacco to

waxed lips and stares

vacantly out over

undulating pastel fields to the

place in her mind where

Clark Gable sweeps her

into his arms and

away from Dixie.

LOVE, MORE OR LESS

2009-08-30T10:35:00.002-10:00

Passion splits

hearts open like the

thin skin of a

ripe melon -

Strains boundaries,

dares to go beyond

convention, what's

safe.

Comfort takes on new

meaning, reaching deeper, until

again we are stretched, and

what once exhausted

now sets the tone for

beginning anew.

Unzipping skin in

unabashed nakedness -

standing or lying or

sitting before another like a

well-polished mirror - a little

too frank, and yet one

cannot look away.

Hot breath steams it over

momentarily, only to resolve into

palpable dampness,

running off the glass like

beads of sweat flowing freely from

rosy flesh - rivulets of

salt and desire, commingling with

sounds prehistoric, otherworldly - a

snake coiling then

poised to strike - and,

once bitten, the

capacity for tolerating the

sweet venom increases

until, eyes dilated,

pulses pounding, the

blood purifies itself, and

we are healed.

YOU

2009-08-30T10:25:00.002-10:00

Like dew on the blades, you

infuse life - gently

surrounding, remaining

still on the

surface -

Nurturing,

touching in -

burning off when it gets too

hot, but always

Reappearing after

evening draws its

mantle of forgetfulness

around us.

MAUNA KEA

2009-08-30T10:09:00.006-10:00

Holding hands, flexing fins we

kick free from shore.

Mystery lies

under the surface. He

squeezes my palm, not to

miss the giant salmon speckled

crab, sifting itself invisible.

Excitedly, I double squeeze back as,

now into coral, neck cranked and

eyes squinting to view, in that

void of distance, silvery fins flashing, a

clutch of jack, serrated backs arcing in

perfect synchrony, disappear into the

depths. Eyes bulging, I strain to follow -

no use. Suddenly I sense

something approaching, know to my

marrow its size. Mouth, gills, flex open,

close. No time to think, as six feet of wingspan sail

effortlessly by, graceful in its element, giant manta

banks unfurling limbs into a current shot through with

flecks of sand and sunlight, cleaves indigo curtains and

plunges to the depths.

Photo copyright Amanda Johnson

MASTER OF WORDS

2009-08-21T17:41:00.005-10:00

What do you try and

prove to anybody –

You, the

master of words?

Still in the

self, in the

soul of things –

cutting words like

mustard, like tangled

kite string –

Moored to your tether, do you

wonder?

Light of the heaven, do you

moan?

Stones clack together as you

suffer the

kindness of fools,

sad and

alone.

Fact is, life gets lonely. Or we become lost somehow in the midst, going on as it does with verve and constancy all around us. How is it then that we experience feelings of void in this world full of wonder? Phenomenologist Robert Romanyshyn suggests we have become “astronauts,” leaving our bodies for the life of the mind. He attributes this condition to a turning point in history when linear perspective entered our collective consciousness. Instead of putting ourselves into life, into experiencing the world, we began viewing it as if through an aperture. And I guess this life of the mind is real for many of us, me included. When I find my mind running on, I don’t appreciate the feast already laid at my table – this “kindness of fools” (meant in the best way – the Fool, in the Tarot, is the Innocent) – and I know the only cure for what ails is to get back to my roots, back onto (and into) the ground.

When in the garden I gladly forego makeup and designer clothing in favor of grubbing my hands in soil. Add more than a dash of sweat and grime, and all the diamond rings and high heeled shoes seem merely contrived plumage which pale in comparison to the vibrant feathers of the red cardinal, goldfinch and the extraordinary complex array displayed on a pheasant’s shimmering breast.

CLOSE TO CREATION

2009-07-21T14:08:00.007-10:00

Howling long and low –

pushing breath

Out where no

space remains for

pain to linger or

dwell.

Impossibly we

fail to repress this

home inside our

own skins - fail to

comprehend ourselves,

expecting the

Other to provide

that which we

refuse to

concede within.

No one can complete us – no one!

Our job as whole people we

already

know.

When practiced long enough,

Well earned peace,

understanding,

tolerance, inner

beauty begin to

unfold.

TROPICAL RAIN

2009-07-07T08:22:00.005-10:00

Tears of rain

collect on the eaves,

swell to full and drop,

heaving onto quaking ginger

rattling with the need of it, spilling

carelessly to an aching ground.

Tropical rain reminds me of

grief, ripe as tomatoes

bending low on October's vine,

refusing to pull free. Green

stalk withers and dies, contrast of

crimson red and tangled umber.

She grieves for the

other and

I for her –

such is the fate of

mothers, forever tied to that

umbilicus - coming and

going from our lives, the

tug and pull of heart strings

playing long and low like the

sad cello, nestled between

knees like the crowning

head of an infant -

root extended downward,

symbolic of that

unavoidable cycle joining

mother, child and

earth in perpetuity.

BROKEN

2009-06-26T21:34:00.005-10:00

Succinct. Staccato.

Goodbye.

Was it meant to be in the

language of lovers, this

poison arrow? Searing pain going

in, almost bearable compared to dragging

out the barb - too much damage,

ragged flesh, jagged,

formidable scar...

Harder still enduring flashes of

memory, the warmth of nesting

bodies not easily replaced by

another -

What keeps us from kindness?

Instead we

bolt from ourselves, seeking a

different reflection.

No escape - no promise of a

better life when leaving what was

once treasured now in

tatters.

Only illusion, which, by sunup or

sleight of hand,

vanishes like a dream we are

desperate to recall.

WEDDING RINGS

2009-06-20T16:17:00.011-10:00

It’s a symbol, that’s

all, he says to her. Don’t make it

personal. I’ll have it fixed one day

soon. Weary eyes smile

Promise.

Seven months pass and still his

left hand, swollen with labor and

longing, lies

bare.

She removes Her ring in

quiet defiance. Gazes

indifferently at it from time to

time, lying amidst gold and silver

earrings held captive in the

yard sale dish shaped like a

canoe – delicate tracings of

winter and waterfowl stamped

Made in Japan.

Sakura – cherry blossom – she learned

what

meant

while slurping udon under the

blue-white fluorescent bulb, counting

spare change and memories.

It’s a fiction, this poem. Not the details, they are nearly correct - distorted only to urge the poem into being. I say this because, after almost twenty years, we are still learning, still growing, still in love with life and one another. And while it is true that my husband has removed his wedding ring, it is only because it has become too large and threatens to slip off. He wears it whenever its loss is not a possibility.

My own parents’ marriage was not enduring, not harmonious, not respectful. Tumultuous would understate. His parents divorced when he was young. We have had our quarrels, our dramatic repartees. And yet somehow through the darkest of times we were left gasping for light, understanding - sought them out like breathing - necessary not only to survival but to our human potential. We felt one another’s suffering and deemed to end it not only for ourselves, but for the good of humanity.

SHELL

2009-05-29T15:30:00.006-10:00

Pastel whorls -

crusty on the outside,

soft on the inside - like

embracing without

measure, or the

times you held me

there, touching pink.

The shell cracks -

imploding layers

rippling deep,

heartbeats pounding

hear the surf,

blood surrounding

taste the salt,

fear of grounding

feet of sand

on the beach.

FORT BRAGG

2009-05-17T16:32:00.025-10:00

FORT BRAGG

The seaweed lay stranded,

abandoned like the long,

mottled intestines of the

stockyard cattle we saw

yesterday, grazing in

mud and their own

excrement.

Beach is strewn with

half-eaten sandwiches, an

overstuffed chair,

human remains only too

prominent on this

grey stretch of

littered landscape.

No signs of life,

save for the sharp

shrill of the harbor whistle,

competing with the

drone of overhead traffic,

endless in its ludicrity.

"I'm dying," she whispers, so

quiet I almost miss it.

Frothy fury stilled by

concrete jetties and

stone embankments

fashioned by the

hands of men.

A figure emerges from the

fog in the distance,

liquid brown eyes reaching

out for a smile.

Disgusted, I pull my shoulders in

tight.

"Let’s clean up this mess,"

I think silently.

"Then there will be

time for talk."

photo of Bela with 14' diameter redwood stump - Alison Johnson

SOLID

2009-04-23T08:48:00.008-10:00

Trembling gently in twilight,

Rippling like a mirage - what seems

solid during the day becomes

Other by nightfall, where things left

unresolved

Return to haunt the living.

Important then to

honor passing dreams -

full-blown as stories once told to the

very young who

Remember that which they could

not yet know …

Take heed to

flights of fancy -

Secrets carried like

diamonds on our backs,

Spilling forth and

landing like

rocks from the sack.

photo credit Amanda Johnson

HERE AND NOW

2009-04-13T19:48:00.007-10:00

I begin to see,

around the

edges that define

morning, how

choices are made -

too much grief, too

little expression of joy,

though it is

there for the asking.

If I ask, will the

world fall apart?

If I indulge, will I be

negligent?

Creation's story is

unfolding before our eyes.

From us, it carries what

weight we give it.

Behind, we leave both

legacy as well as

longing which,

unredeemed,

arches toward

fulfillment in every

breath birthed through

unfurling souls -

leaning into the light,

striving toward purpose, then

pressed between

pages of

time.

COMPANION

2009-04-13T19:36:00.005-10:00

Legs unsteady, she

crashes to the ground -

pinioned between the

embarrassed youth and an

iron railing.

Rests for a time,

body twisted like

gnarled manzanita and

just as reddish brown, its

bark smoother than her

sun-weathered skin.

As I approach, she

strains to get her

bearings without

support from the

Other.

Now she's up,

jackrabbit-fast, muttering

Stupid!Stupid! while

dark wet eyes, the kind

puppies melt hearts with,

meet concern with

veiled gratitude.

QUESTION

2009-04-06T17:56:00.008-10:00

QUESTION

Ask me what lives in silence -

can it be coaxed along, like a

small stream of water diverted

gently along the miles it took to get

here, to this place?

You think I'm lava, fiery

red and flowing, melding

grooves in your

granite consciousness, hissing

steam and turning

solid when it hits

home. But

No.

I am not that brazen, I am not

Her.

I am shy,

tractable right now, in

need of the

tender crook of your arm, a

warm place I can

burrow into, until the

storm passes.

- photo credit Amanda Johnson

His name was Gary Simons. Really. She met him at the building supply outlet where they both worked. I tell you his name just in case. In the event he is ever located. Ever found. I would want to ask him a thing or two. Like how he could treat a young girl that way. How he could break her heart, any heart knowingly, then smile and walk away. Actually, thrust his tongue halfway down her throat in full view of friends and relations and then walk away with bride in tow. At his own wedding. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

He was the first guy she even considered bringing home to meet the parents. Tall with curly chestnut hair and green eyes, his smile lit up the room. She knew next to nothing about him except that, after work, he would invite her for ice cream or billiards. On the back of a Honda motorcycle, she clung tightly around his narrow waist, breathing in Old Spice and clean-smelling sweat. The safety of him. The potential. His laughter - always that humor with eyes that smiled as much as his mouth. It was easy being with him, relaxed. The next day at work he would flirt with her, tease her, not unkindly. It was always that way. Until it wasn't.

One day she showed up for work, shrugged into her gold smock, took her place at the register and waited. As she would. For customers, for banter with fellow workers, for the day to end. For her life to begin. And up he waltzed. Asked her what she thought was a good jewelry store. That he was looking. For an engagement ring. A hand-made affair. For that special woman. You know. Then the feeling. The sick, pit of the stomach bottoming out feeling. Suspended belief. Calmly she told him of a place, a shop near the mountain foothills. Good goldsmith. Beautiful jewelry. She cannot now recall how she knew the place, but she did. And shared its name. Location.

The tone of their meetings remained the same. Only now it was more visits to her place rather than out in public. Still the warm caresses, the kisses. She wondered, fantasized. Maybe he was teasing, not sure. Gauging her responses. Measuring her need for him. I mean, she was eighteen, for godssake. I'm not sure she even knew his age. Twenty something. At that time. And then the ring. Brought with him to work, shown to her, delighted with the referral. Heart left aching. Stomach sinking. Beautiful ring. Not for her. Not for them. Not ever.

A couple of weeks passed. He mentioned her name. Linda. Her sister's name. Not her sister. It seems she lost the ring. Took it off to wash dishes and down it went, down, down. Gone, gone. Maybe it was a sign. But then the invitation. The wedding. You must come, please do! He was leaving, moving. Right after. Across the country, a world away and into Naval Officer's school. The first she heard. She went to the wedding. With a coworker. Reception after. And the rest, my friends, has already been told. Disappeared from her life. Forever.

ALL THE REST HAVE THIRTY-ONE

2009-03-30T19:40:00.000-10:00

Days flutter by like pages ripping

clean off the calendar -

twirling madly in the wind,

never coming to rest when

another breeze lifts them

back into flight - until

tattered filaments can no

longer hold leaves

together, so that finally,

free as compost,

they rejoin soil.

Does time pass this way because I am getting older, or, like a child's flip book, is the mind now grasping entire pictures once perceived only as fragments of the whole? Is this a self preservation mechanism born of necessity, living as we do in chaotic times?

And if the vista becomes the focus, what of the small steps it takes to carry me to the precipice? I still want to feel rocks crunching underfoot, want to sense what is carried on the breeze, taste the sweet or acrid air, feel the texture of shrubs. I want to know what creature howls off in the distance, contemplate what hides under boulders and hums beneath the ground of my existence. And it is this optimal experience that carries me, again and again, into the present moment where the passing of time seems only an illusion.