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, on page 0101 of the 2001 edition, and on page 0202 of the 2002 edition..
A slow satisfied smile spreads across his face,
Standing in the corner of a neighborhood
And, when that was not to be, had placed it
It catches/holds his eye, that forlorn view of the unstrung neck,
Epoxy, skillfully applied, mends the five-way switch.
The missing strings and tremolo bar are swiftly added.
The soft polish cloth brings forth a respectable shine.
A slow satisfied smile spreads across his face,
as he caresses a few chords from the instrument recovered,
far from new, but with a lingering melody
or two remaining to be discovered.
trash bin, it had been discarded and yet,
it did not seem to have been just cast away.
Someone had tried and failed to restore it;
carefully, with most of its parts that day,
standing the guitar body upright in the corner,
so as to be salvaged or hauled away.
protruding from the neighborhood trash bin.
Interrupting his daily jog, he examines his find and,
with a satisfied smile, sees that it can be played again.
A few drops of carefully placed solder
restore to normal the damaged circuitry.
Polished and reattached, the faceplate brings forth order.
With sure hand and practiced patience, the task proceeds.
Head tilted to catch each sound, he tunes each string.
A pause, a satisfied sigh, the resurrection succeeds.
It could be sanded and refinished to its former beauty,
But there is something about the patina that stays his hand,
like a face, fashioned by time and work and love and duty.
as he caresses a few chords from the instrument recovered,
far from new, but with a lingering melody
or two remaining to be discovered.
Between snowfall and the first snow melt
Lupine and chia to the mountain shall cling
So vibrant and warm on the desert floor
Phacelia surrounds the budding creosote bush
Orange mallow and common, five spot, too,
Golden poppies coaxed by the early sun unfurl
The ephemeral tapestry heralds what is to be
The mountains must have kissed the sky
For scraps and patches of innocent blue
Across the meadow about my feet do lie.
They herald that which is to be.
As fecund yuccas thrust their spiky stalks so high.
Phlox and fiddleheads add their hues
To the palette of days that scurry by
Heralding that which is to be.
The tender, young carpet of purple mat lies
Interspersed with blossoms--white and yellow--
Which titillate the seekers' eyes.
The palette heralds that which is to be.
And coreopsis forms swaths so wide they sigh
When the first cool breath of the mountain breeze
Whispers a love song as it passes by,
Gently heralding that which is to be.
Enhance the ephemeral tapestry that's alive.
The popcorn flowers, indigo bush, and sage
Accent the lie of the land with exquisite surprise
As the love song heralds that which is to be.
And create the illusion on the mountainside
That the rays themselves have metamorphosed
Into flowers so brilliant that they cannot hide
Within the tapestry heralding that which is to be.
Among golden poppies that shroud golden memories
Of all who shared the beauty of the day,
Before sun and time and age furled such reality away,
And exalted the primogenitors of that which is yet to be.
It crept in unnoticed, the erosion of the senses.
Progress marched on oblivious of the mundane
By the time the chasm was noticed at all,
Gone, too, were the joy and the crisp exuberance
Puzzled by a vague, unsettled feeling
Cracks appeared and tumed into tiny furrows
which, in turn, became ruts but caused little concern.
And gullies, unremarked by most, consumed the ruts.
demands that alternately nagged, shrieked, and tugged.
Civilized behavior insisted
that scars be ignored, and warts as well.
it was too deep to reach the safety of
solid ground and far too wide to span
with progress or civilized behavior.
of bright, shiny, new days filled with the flash
of the tiny bluebird's wings or the
tap-tap-tapping of the red-headed
woodpecker. Stars in the night sky seemed
to have faded and dimmed. Cool breezes
had become thermostatically,
climate controlled.
they slipped away to bed.
Their bodies never touched.
Neither progress nor civilized behavior
could assuage the sense of a grievous loss.
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 2003 All Rights Reserved
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2-23-03