Under the Quiet

Golden showers stream down
in dappled luminescence,
crescent slivers of fragrant
eucalyptus leaves
and she sits, no distraction
save the gurgle of a coppery-
bottomed meandering brook,
sparkling and nosing its way
through giant boulders
rolled into place long
before flows were choked back
to mere trickles, still it exudes
contentment, beauty;

She wonders at the silence
under the silence, what is the
texture of a thing unseen?
Too fine a vision has gotten her
in trouble more than once,
overactive imagination
they called it yet it persists,
and her mind can’t stop wondering
if there is this, than there must
be that, something deeper
in the woven shadows of trees,
the hollows of husky trunks,
the shapes of billowing clouds,
themselves harbingers of light
released from cerulean skies
in the form of diamond drops,
lustrous liquid giving off
the only sound in a world
once silent as grass,
or the thoughts that plague
her now.

Mana Rd., Big Island HI ~ bj

Futuristic

When the spin slows down to a pin-drop lull,
and time moves forward, collapses,
telescopic Trickster demonstrating the folly
of what most consider solid;
When accepted illusion no longer holds sway,
capturing the monkey mind in sticky spider web
trappings of its own making;

All synapses point click to Now, as perhaps
they always have done, and what can be said?
How can this finger snap in time be configured
into sentences, concepts, a thing written down
and shared, how can word forms be crafted,
steps away from that immediacy
(as they are bound to be), concept wired
to mind controlling hands on keys, eyes
riveted now on print moving?

One day, perhaps, telepathy will become
accepted, sweeping elephantine humanity
into a prismatic jet stream, speed of light
transmitting what is now thus laboriously
midwifed into being.

 

‘Cauldron of Creation” ~ Bela Johnson

Wisdom Watch

On the gentle winds that swirl around,
I hear the echoes of past, present, future,
voices of the ancestors, whispers
only the smallest attenuated bones
of a dog’s ear can hear, but:

Listen;

Just under the threshold of consciousness,
word images form, wisdom that comes
in an archaic language long forgotten,
and yet in dreams, understood;

Extraordinary hearing is not necessary,
only the desire to attend to prompts
normally screened out, leaving most
unaware of their existence, which does
not invalidate them;

Ignorance is a thing disregarded,
still, simply because one does not
Believe, does not make anyone smarter,
reveals, in fact, an unwillingness to accept
the viewpoints of others;

Listen.

Learn. Wisdom can be taught,
but not if one’s ears are shut.

 

Eternal

 

The poem that had to be written at two in the morning;
was it carried on the wind building force in the night,
pushing harder on my head until, evoking surrender,
I turn the page and silently push the pencil,
watching words forming, shapes curving alongside
one another, forging bond between graphite
and sinew, seemingly benign,
but lest it appear deceptive, consider:

These words cast upon vellum one twilight
in the midst of my days will remain
long after this puzzle life breaks apart,
leaving only a specter which once I perceived
to be me, as if the I who loves you
could be captured
on a page.







 

 

Solid

Trembling gently in twilight,
rippling like a mirage,
what seems solid during the day
becomes otherworldly by nightfall
when things left unresolved
return to haunt the living;

Important then to honor passing
dreams, full-blown stories once told
to the very young, remembering that
which they could not yet apprehend;

Take heed to flights of fancy,
diamond secrets borne upon the back,
then spilling forth and landing
like rocks from the sack.

 

Apparitions #writephoto

Gaze long enough into the mist
and forms appear, a figure, two,
fairy folk, the hag, an angel,
as if the barge to Avalon had
never faded far into memory;

Look without looking, summon
with your heart wide open
and perhaps they will come,
hestitant at first, trusting
no human (and who can blame them),
but you, you seek their trust,
and all artists know what it is
to be marginalized;

These folks or angels
(for who can say), appearances
fluctuating according to pleasure
or whim, shape-shifters all,
having learned wariness long ago
beyond our reckoning surely
as we grow impatient, sharpening
rather than softening the retinae,
losing rather than capturing,
lessons learned well
in the dominant paradigm
of patriarchy;

Balance is the way of the world,
and She will have her way; yet
we who remain curious witness
this reemergence, resurgence
in a world increasingly in need
of visions thus recreated.

all photos @2019 Bela Johnson

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday #photoprompt Destination

Moonglow

I see you, Sister Moon, as you skitter across metal
rooftops, bathing the landscape in your pale
silvery frost, calling me up and out of fretful
sleeplessness, leaving me now to wonder
on which coast I lie, memories of chill mornings,
stoking wood fires, perpetually icy floors,
never warm save for the evening bath steaming
in the early black of night before a tumble
into cool wool blankets, waiting for him to generate
enough heat so muscles could relax enough
to drift into star-spiked dreams;

No choice but to follow as you beckon, teasing
loose the borders of sleep’s inception, drifted wisps
of thought creeping in, vines of phrases twining
into form, spinning wakefulness out of slumber,
then once arisen, watching skies darken implausibly
into pitchy night, once again;

Sleep is respite, not much dissuades me from its
sound embrace, only the occasional ghost tapping
at the windows of my mind, plucking cobwebs
from corners heretofore ignored, prodding questions,
where, what, when and the damnable why,
as if final answers are ever going to be forthcoming
in the pique of midnight hours;

Watch and wait, learn to live in moments, lay aside
expectations, decisions can wait until sunrise,
discover grace under pressure, reside under this
perpetual cloak of uncertainty; life guarantees
nothing, that much I know, and if nothing else,
always remember peace is personal.

Moonset in early morning light through lace curtains ~ © Bela Johnson

Jump

Over the precipice I crouch, ready to fly,
far from nature’s firm embrace,
my familiar; wondering now
what remains, how to regain ground
if the choice is to stay;

I have been here before many times;
only jump, I counsel, and you will rise
like the phoenix, sail through basalt
ethers, soaring up and up
into azure heavens where the view
fans out clearly before me; then,
and only then can I return refreshed,
renewed in spite of edging darkness
threatening to engulf me in confusion;

Black birds dart obscenely as shadows
lengthen, drawing me forward and out
beyond the delicate framework
of existence and soon my choices
will evaporate like mist; favoring action
over indecision hastens transmutation;

Jump. The word echoes in the rushing
reverberations of wind, a whirling vortex
of ecstatic wonder, freedom of flight,
liberation from the dull pique of gravity,
unimpeded vistas of emerald and chestnut
and umber; snow-capped mountain peaks,
their jagged edges framed starkly against
smooth shoulder of river and glade,
oceanic indigo and turquoise hues
punctuating torn cotton shreds of clouds,
golden beams of light scattered through;

Without effort I light softly now, no bone-
crushing landing in this dreamscape,
weightless and cleansed and struck through
with illumination I awaken, newly birthed
into a world filled with marvels yet to behold.

Kohala double rainbow Waimea canyon overlook, Kauai

Red cardinal, Pololu ValleyMauna Kea beach sands

Kilauea tidepool, Kauai

as always, all photos ©Bela Johnson