I stitch. I stitch Howe’s breath. So much
So much
The ghosting echoes ride the intersecting cells of my skin
Sewn sentences tickle tasteful images
of pages
full of already chewed knowledge
The melody of coherence rises and crosses the letters as they fall into unition
The letters – Holy words
Holding eachother up
creating
A texture of renewed senses
sentences
Divining lines
Crossing T’s
Moving wings
Woven
Moving words.
Finding the calm between stones
And lost paths through forgotten streets
Humming for promise when alone
This is where her heart and pavement meet.
The shops are closed
The shelves all bare
Now memories superimposed
Are all that we can find there.
There’s no more sugar
And no more spice,
We’ve all but lost what
We thought of as “nice”
Broken Buick,
Gutted Dodge,
Sit pretty on the sideline
Next to yester years news.
Yet here is where she finds herself
Her cooing lullaby,
Is the silence
The stillness
She catches in her eye.
My mind,
Stained with the scent
Of fallout vapor,
Incineration of the ideal,
The perfection of the
Synapses misappropriated
With age of Metamorphosis
And the reality is
Idyllic in its disintegration.
We long for what can never be,
What waits in the ruin,
Beneath the fallen monuments
The salvation of a race
Might be had.
During week 9 of the quarter, quarter research papers were due with presentations for the entire class. All quarter, I had researched the history, building techniques, and qualities of roof shingles and tiles that developed in Japan. In this process, I found much beauty and appreciation for the aesthetics of the roof as well as the dedication to quality in the craftsmanship. The methods of framing and dressing the roof was poetry for me that I saw echoing through the ages and into the present moment. Here is the power point presentation and I presented to the class.
Writing
Writing, writing
I know not
showing only what I’ve bought
Make me fancy, make me fine,
words only mask what we forgot.
Tell me what the beauty sees–
but restricted
Never-ending story told,
the Passion only felt
How do you survive
when you can only describe?
–when the blow
can’t be felt?
And so quatrain one completes
the story that somehow
defeats
the purpose of the experience.
Every page empty as a lonesome Journal.
Yet so subtle.
The trees shine on forever,
leaves beautifully reflecting
the sun. will it stop?
Never.
We all know where this story will go.
Fill the pages from head to toe,
until the blaze of Carpal Tunnel
Seizes your tools
and you suddenly forget
which way the wind blows.
Continue on,
until the softness that you sing
surrounds and heals your broken wing
don’t lose it–
least you fall & break in half
in attempt to describe
a door.
Language does what is easy–
simple ticks, swishes, and curves–
to convey the Immense–
the love of a child
and his brother. But prose alone
will always be
A product of this harmony;
the sounds, the sights,
repeated
–Just as they’ve always been
But do they show?
I don’t know,
I don’t know,
I don’t know.
I see in my head
what you wanna convey,
But it was not mine–
it’s in your life to stay.
Every day, this happens to us.
A Language of Adjectives.
That is what we must undone.
Dependence on the viewing screen,
in front of men with sexless suits,
flashing descriptions of beauty
before their very eyes
And they think they think no less of this
of course, because their eyes
are made of myst
And we know of no other way to exist.
should this language really BE?
ticks and flicks and rambling lines
can never stand the test of time.
Where was I going?
You won’t know,
you sacred “El Magnifico”
who thinks he can control the Earth
–there is no place for you.
I still can’t wrap my head around it–
or won’t–
Either way, we still betray
what is Abounded
so stealing thoughts is the best I can do,
I state this plain and simple.
With all the grandeur I could use
to state my place
and make you think me worthy,
I won’t.
I write only what I can
About the state
of the world,
And expect you to not understand.
Because you can’t.
I see me change into a kite
Fly away————–
see soon what will come
–and be done.
I see dyslexia aplenty
hurting the desk
of mystery (black-cherry finish)
inside
where all the paper’s a jumbled mess
that doesn’t exist in the first place
Because this what-i-am is gold
in a field of tin
and completely
Incomplete.
A faded day
in my head, again
I fade.
can’t know who
How
i got to here when
i was
Myself.
Heart.
Centre.
No think.
You are what you DO
–you are how to lose
For now.
All I need is confidence
or My heart is weak
And i pass out
or i don’t think
And i fall from grace.
Today i thought was bad
but into my heart,
people are nice.
out of my head
Ain’t so bad.
write like this
it’s nice.
I love the World.
can’t a sentence
Hope to please
And/or water
the Tree of Meaning?
could go on forever–
no idiom
Never follow me
Never follow my
track of letters
marching
in chaos
as i walk two three
and back again
in the chaos of my under-mind
–the one that doesn’t think–
but knows.
me before i do.
I am
the one who counts
no quantify
are you sing?
don’t pass me by.
I do.
but i am
i try,
i really do
To be the best instinct I can
Ego is an IDiot
I find ‘to be’ entrapped
by me when I’m sttuck within myself
I see
when ‘me” is disappeared
A product of what–
Heart?
Leave unresolved.
For now.
i am solved
by whomever I am.
Randomly Stabbed in the back of the thigh
I wonder why
she does not call to me instead
All these ghosts in sailboats
are the reason I have cried.
To me, she says “I’m almost there”
but she was always standing there
“Seize him? No reason.”
And so my spirit died.
As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one.
me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, lots of fabrics,
me hold numbersome fabrics in my closet, on my bed, in my life.
me touch them in moments of inspiration, Like when me hear a distant fiddle, or when me smell a breeze of goat.
me hold fabrics of color, of sun, of intricate stories,
of elaborate fairytales,
of crumbling brick,
of fishing towns. Of the distant kitchen in my minds eye that I wish to cook in.
The thread that is my reverie, holds together all of the meaning made memories that are of my fabrics. So many fabrics.
(IM SAD)
I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in a word, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.
Story department stories.
(I REMEMBER)
In an effort towards belonging, I will weave.
I will weave the shit out of synthetic fibers, made into a repetitive pattern in a cosmic culture of so much fabric.
Fabric is not fabric.
Fabric is animal,vegetable,mineral- it cycles.
through hands.
FABRIC, in its glory, in its truth is what sets us apart and brings us together.
all civilization uses fiber, fabric, to survive.
all survival is in the fabric.
We are hand made, only.
We have handmade a culture that endures, in its fabric.
To claim a place as ones native home, one must have an intimate understanding of its fabric.
To be a mother, a digger, a harvester, a sower, a crafter
me must seek the source.
(what is source?)
the source might be the music, or the holding of babies, or the food, or the wet, or the dry…
the source is the way
the wet, the raw, the blood, the sweat, the fibers, the grit, the earth, the dirt, the sewn materials, of comfort.
The Patterns in Nature : The Fabric
(Sunshine folklore)
cultured fibers
Universes
my mind is not unlike the galaxy.
deep and dark, mysterious. thoughts floating around for eons, like lost astroids, then
the ah-ha! moments hit like a meteor hitting the earth – suddenly, a flash of light,
with expansion of wonderment,
with exploration of unknown creativity,
forever leaving an indent in my being, in my earth.
I repeated it aloud over and over again in the warm bath water
Yoni, yOni, yoNi, yonI….
each time required a new expansion of breath.
Outward.
creativity, meeting the slowly wafting waves, originated by My lungs.
Pondering apon the meaning of Yoni,
“An Entrance to the Universe”
Pondering upon the universes my feminine body encounters:
A Universe of Exploration
the creative touch brings breaths, brings moans, brings warm wet places to the surface of our union, from the depths of my internal universe. then,
the granted entry into my universe, my yoni. private, unique, my pear, picked to perfection, to consume, to renew, to build, to drip the juice of life. this is one entrance to the universe, my universe.
and when this universe is entered, my yoni likes to speak, to be loud, to laugh, to moan, to scream, to expand and expel the tension that grew and grew all fucking day.
hello,
creative exploration.
A Universe of Expansion
your growth, nourishment, brings expansion of my belly. into a globular, hanging universe made just for you. tripping over my breath to keep up with you, staying focused, feeding you, feeding me. then,
descending. waves of intensity wash me to shore, swallow me and lay me back down on the sand again, repeat. repeat. repeat. trying to replenish my lungs enough to keep up with your
grand ascending. this is one entrance to the universe, our universe.
and when this universe is entered, my yoni likes to be heard, to listen, to teach, to moan, to cry, to contract and to expel the tension that grew and grew all fucking 41 weeks.
hello, creative expansion.
Breathing, breathing, inward, outward.
my body is a portal, a sacred portal of universes rich with coming and going.
mysterious and deep,
my yoni is like the galaxy,
ripe with the unknown,
with wonder.
Siproena Johnson
As Poetry Recycles Neurons
March.11.13
Poetry
Identity
I thought I’d be an engineer and have fun in this field
I was told to pursue this dream to get the higher benefit yield
I thought being architect would please my art love and adult’s demands
I then realized their visions were more like subtle commands
I thought I’d be a writer imagination through my pen would flow
I was then recalled to reality and told to let the dream world go
I later became a big sister to a brother and a teacher in a way
His open mind and love for me still drives me to this day
He sees me as the mentor these children now see me
Now I’ve realized my passion and person I want to be
Teaching is my passion whether in the classroom or on neighbor’s lawn
I find myself thinking up activities to share sometimes from morning on
I then remember teachers who stand out in my mind
Characteristics I am still drawn to such as humorous, imaginative, and kind
These things I try to emulate when I share some sort of craft