Frances Johnson as a poet is interested in people, places, and things as well as their relationships one to another.
About her poetrry Frances Johnson writes, "Words fascinate me because they have such power. With them we can express emotions, ideas, hopes, dreams, ideals, and much more. We can question, answer, build up,tear down, explore the known and the unknown, etc. Ultimately, I think language will either lead us to our nobler selves or to annihilation. Thus, I see a tremendous but exciting responsibility attached to writing whether it is poetry or a learned treatise.I'm very pragmatic and realistic in my daily life.However, I do believe that each of us has embedded somewhere inside, a mystical side that defies logic as it is usually defined. That side of me wishes to cultivate awareness of life/existence at all possible levels even when it can only be partially accomplished."
Frances Johnson's poetry also appeared on page 9109 in the 1999 edition of the The Central California Poetry Journal and on page 0101 of the 2001 edition.
Something clicked at the first casual encounter,
Something clicked at the first casual encounter.
Something clicked at the first casual encounter,
transcending time and space quicker
than a half-formed thought,
revealing the depth and breadth
of a nurturing and wounded soul
secured against casual and prying eyes.
Unsought and unbidden, its arriving came
as if expected and meant to be,
settling in without ceremony,
bestowing privileges and favors,
secured with invisible, casual ties.
peeling away layers of gruff bravado,
inscrutable nuances revealing
that would not/should not be defined;
that could be/should be cherished and kept
secured against casual and prying eyes.
A squat,
carnelian streaked
Chinese lantern
rises to roundness,
luring the straggler
to pursue the phantom
quarry, knowing
it cannot long be
restrained.
He was a handsome country boy, the youngest
What talent he had for making songs and playing the harp.
Many tales of jealousies and intrigues about life in the palace
Of eight sons. Grew up in these hills.
He was a wild little thing, running on his short, thin legs
And singing with such a voice the songs he made up himself.
That, and hitting targets with his slingshot. It is said
That he protected his father's flock with that simple weapon.
Sometimes, late at night, we could hear him singing his songs
To quiet the sheep when they were restless.
It is said that he gained much favor with high authority
And was anointed with oil over his older brothers.
We have been told that he played sweet music for the king
To drive away the spirits that tormented him. But it was
His slingshot in the battle with the giant that saved
The kingdom when the more seasoned troops were
Ready to flee for their lives or to give up.
Have come to us. But you know how rumors do spread.
You say it is certain that the king and his three sons are dead
On Mount Gilboa. Our singing shepherd boy is king.
Who would have believed it?
Wrapped in a protective
cocoon
of dead trees and printer's ink
and/or
miles of fiber optics
Voyeur
unseen and anonymous
you feed
surreptiously on
bits/bytes
snatched from www.com
until
bloated and pale
only
remnants of reality
virtual/otherwise
remain.
I'm not that easily satisfied.
Uneven, undulating
Silently, squirming, stretching
Unmasking even the wary
as stealthily
the shadows--casting
backbone--silhouetted
against the sleepy sky,
the first light of day
crawls over vacant shells,
soon to be fully revealed
under the spreading glow
comes the dawn
illuminating
a bright glare on
last night's secrets.
With the years and geography between them,
Bold and daring each had been,
The older, as family stories relate,
Bold and daring each had been,
Then one warm, fleecy summer day, the younger
Bold and daring each had been
One scarely knew the other;
Only that the younger was born
To the sister, the older to the brother.
Especially around a body of water.
Waded deep--fearless, unhurt;
And was brought shivering home.
Wrapped in Grandpa's warm, fleece shirt.
Especially around a body of water.
Was found--f l o a t i n g--his face down,
And was brought still and cold home;
With such heavy words, "He's drowned."
Especially around a body of water.
Uncomplaining
at rigid
attention ( facing northwest)
the wind is spinning
three-armed
giants that
stand watch on the
mountaincrest
as valley bovines
graze among
green grasses
and golden poppies
fold sun-warmed
petals to mark
the approaching
darkness. A lone
mallard
contemplates one
final swim in spring's
fading lake
before seeking
shelter.
Mountain breezes dissipate the heat
On such a clear, moonless summer night
On such a clear, moonless summer night
that clings to the desert floor
offering comfort to the sleepless
whose restless tossing and turning is
almost indistinguishable
from the chittering of sleepy birds
that, awakened by the human noise,
create a night symphony
or so it might appear.
as one rolls lazily from side to back
on the chaise lounge in the yard that is more
inviting than curling in a bed too warm,
too confined for the moment,
and gazes skyward, mysteries are revealed
by the multitude, mysteries so close
that each might be plucked from the heavens
or so it does appear.
as mountain breezes dissipate the heat
and birds chitter a lullaby to all who would hear,
it is logical to embrace the possibility
that one is one with the universe,
is experiencing all time and all space,
is seeing the beginning of the beginning,
is gazing awe-stricken into the face of the Creator.
That is the way things might appear.
We sing our song
We sing our song
We sing our song
of delicate emotions
har - mo -
nizing with new
understanding.
penetrating regions clear -
toned be -
yond audito -
ry perceptions.
Once, pure unspoiled melody
counter -
pointing total
understanding.
Venerated only a heartbeat ago
There were others who thought
As dawn breaks, my backlighted silhouette,
as a newly recognized link
to the most basic issues of life,
I was once thought to exist
as a myth told by wanderers
without homes or roots
who traversed the unknown
and in whose imaginings
there might lie buried a shard of truth
about my tenacious survival
that was born of the actions of my life.
I must be a much more recent figment
of an overactive imagination.
Doubters denied both my form and substance,
sure that I must have been created around a campfire
and overstated to soothe the mind and body
after a long day's challenging ascent.
Such nonbelievers, lacking both faith
and reference, suspected not
the significance of the
outflowing of my life.
gnarled and twisted by forces that ebb and flow
across time and space, stands a silent watch.
My stark, misshapen, still rugged body
has adapted well to that over
which I have had no dominion.
Designated by design or default
as the chronicler of decades, centuries,
and millennia, I anchor time to space
on a subalpine bed of dolomite,
my wellspring of life.
With regards from an old Bristlecone Pine
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway2002. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author. Copyright © Frances Johnson 2002. All rights reserved.
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