Almost Here
by Kenneth Johnson
a flickering flame
desperate
to breathe
in a windstorm
waiting for
a sigh worth
a thousand words
finding none
consumed by
a flickering flame
desperate
to breathe
A touch
hovered above
circling a surface
lingering while
looking to light
hoping to find
solace in those
days and nights
when everything
hovered above
circling a surface
lingering while
lips pressed
against the skin
a polished apple
a summer of skin
lips pressed
against the skin
it’s almost here
it’s almost here
The Weight of Water
His hands formed
a cup as if to hold
a capsized ship
rudderlessly dragging
pushing the limit
of vanishing stability
His fingers tight
attempting to carry
the weight of water
seeking its level
the molecules slowly
loosening their grip
the cruel game
the complacency
the lure of pink noise
the temptation of waves
to swallow the ocean
to resist righting
Not Joined at The Hip
My therapist says we are not
joined at the hip
my therapist is not my shadow
but I know it’s a lie
that’s said over and over
to sound like truth
My therapist says I need to
get out more
I do so begrudgingly
just for spite
not for pity but as a way
to gain control
a way to not lose face
to not be shamed
At least in some small way
I must strike back
My therapist says we are not
joined at the hip
My therapist has great ideas
but they’re all on paper
stored in file cabinets
with carbon steel locks
I’m sure on one page I saw
a drawing of someone
being charged by a dog
It looked like an attack dog
It was biting at the ankles
pieces of pants in its teeth
splatters of saliva and blood
all over the sidewalk
I’ve seen that dog
I’ve been that dog
I Adopt Myself
I.
The body is weak
the mind a truck
pulling weight
up a hill
in the rain
My name means
nothing —
a response to a
sensation recall
prompt
II.
I remember
the harshness
of my father’s
words as he
berated me for
not wanting to
continue fishing
the creek
as the sun set
It’s autumn
cool again
the wind shakes
the branches
of birch trees
III.
Looking
from above
the landscape
shifts between
desert and city
city and desert
muted trapezoids
of land and stone
blocks of time
on a shelf
willing to be
called up at
a moment’s notice
to live
between worlds
IV.
The lighting perfect
I run my fingers
through my hair
sit just right
pose and smile
The flowers
of the calla lilies
planted after the
last frost are
opening midmorning
the sun converting
water droplets
formed on the lips
of the white spathes
into prisms
BIO
Kenneth Johnson is a poet, visual artist, and art teacher living in Claremont, California. His work has appeared in San Antonio Review, Talking River Review, Poetica Review, The Diaspora/UC Berkeley, and other publications. His chapbook Molten Muse is available at the usual places.
Additional information: kennethjohnsonart.wixsite.com/kennethjohnsonart