Yellow, like the tints

Yellow, like the tints
Clouds carry behind their white,
Shines around their heads.

Hooded they walk by

Hooded they walk by
One head down, one turns to stare
Daring a return.

Raw throat reminding

Raw throat reminding
Life is tenuous balance
Great with abundance

Placid water calls

Placid water calls
Human form to interrupt
Splashing peace with joy

The hours run long

The hours run long
As she sits in stone stillness
Waiting to wait more.

Good street corner folks

Good street corner folks
Offering me God's blessing
Sweet Divinity.

This is somewhat connected to a part of a poem that I think is still in the draft stages:

Driving with the Radio

Sometimes when I’m driving with the radio on
it makes me feel like I’m in a movie and this is one of those sequences
where the soundtrack tells the story while we watch the driver
cruse along all by themselves.

And I find myself staring out the window
at some small child playing in their front yard
within her safe and happy universe
or at a man trying to look his best with a knapsack and a sign offering me God’s blessing,
or at a pawn shop, where I know there’s a glass case in the back
separating some young woman from her tiny piece of forever
and I have no idea why she needed the money so badly
or if maybe she just needed to get rid of the damn thing.

Then something brings me back:
the car in front of me brakes or someone honks
and I remember that it’s not safe to stare or to think about those sorts of things
while cruising along at 70 mph in a heap of metal and plastic and glass.

The veil between me and my momentary neighbors falls back into place
and the fiction that I care and can be impacted by these things emotionally
is replaced by the fact of my trying
not to wad my heaping chariot into to the embankment
or turn myself into mince.

I turn off the music and roll down the window.

Sometimes when I’m driving with the window down
It makes me feel like I’m in a movie...

Sunlight through the shades

Sunlight through the shades
Some no one saying the news
Nine more minutes, please.

Bad breath and bed hair

Bad breath and bed hair
Sleepy eyes and last night's smells
Love in the morning.

Staring eyes of stars

Staring eyes of stars
Probing, piercing, prodding me
Why, to where, and when.

And another, thematically related poem:

Naked at Night

I walk along the causeway, naked.
The water on either side lapping against the shore diagonally
against my movement.
I am out alone. It was irresponsible to leave my clothes behind
But the wind feels cool against my skin.

I reach the dock, and walk out. The water lapping against the pillars
against my movement.
Someone has left a can of worms.
But they have escaped to their doom in the dark below.
I sit down with my feet in the water.
My bare ass on the worn damp timber.
I know that if anyone comes I can jump in the water
And they won’t see me, even if they hear me.
If I do it right they will think I’m a fish jumping.

No one comes.
I slip into the water anyway, silent as I can so I don’t startle the stars.
They’ve seen me naked already, their light has felt my skin
But they don’t mind,
And I don’t what to disturb their conversations with each other.

I swim out into the dark. The dark can’t see because it’s blind,
Like the animals who live in it.
The dark is in the water, though, so I guess that it can feel me.
Maybe that’s what feels cool.
The dark is a mysterious affection
Different from the straightforward desire of the light.
The moon sees me through the dark and water.
The moon loves the dark, and the water, and feels a little jealous at my touch
But not very much.
The moon isn’t as jealous as the sun.


I know where the dock is, and the causeway,
But there is nothing for me there.
If I go that way then someone might find me naked and ask me what I am doing
and I won’t know what to tell them.
If they don’t then the morning will find me naked and ask me what I am doing
and I won’t know what to tell it either.

I have forgotten how to get home.

CGJohnson

Devil woman dance

Devil woman dance
In the corner of my eye
Just outside of reach.

Corner of my eye
Sees a devil woman dance
Just outside of reach

Just outside of reach
In the corner of my eye
Devil woman Dance

Just outside of reach
The devil woman dances
Corner of my mind.

Frightful waters rush

Frightful waters rush
The orbit of their seasons.
Rain and flood and cloud.

Great grey gods of sky

Great gray gods of sky
Swirls of pris'm and power
Cry us your blessing.

Into the Darkness

Into the Darkness
I cast my voice much fearful
Nothing will return


An inauspicious start to what I hope will become a better developed practice.

My intentions:

1. To post at least one haiku per day. Haiku are both relatively easy to write, and difficult to write well. Furthermore, being that haiku have only seventeen syllables, and brevity is the soul of wit, haiku, even bad ones, have the soul of wit about them. I sincerely will try to post one every day, however, for reasons that might become clear later, or perhaps not, the timing of the posts will be erratic, at least at first.

2. To post, from time to time, any other bits of short fiction or poetry I am willing to allow other people to read.

3. To vent, from time to time, my frustrations. There is, you see, an exhibitionist component to the endeavor. However, for those more discerning readers who have already heard or read enough of the solipsistic ramblings of mid-twenty-somethings, the autobiographical components will be clearly marked, and should be easy to avoid.

Format (subject to change):

Each entry will begin with a haiku, just as this one did.

Any short fiction or poetry, beyond the haiku, will be preceded by single line title, as so:

Fictionality, part ii

Do not lie to me, please,
To make such easy prey on one
Doomed to act on what he sees.

You could, I think, with ease
Take my heart and have your fun,
But do not lie to me, please.

I understand that she was taught to tease
And love is a contest to be won.
She, too, doomed to act on what she sees.

Little I know of the business of countries,
And acts not suited to light of sun.
Do not lie to me, please.

Perhaps there are some keepers of the keys
Of secret things to do and things done,
Each state doomed to act on what it sees.

No one tell me things meant to appease.
I know each soul must make its run.
Just do not lie to me, please;
We all, doomed to act on what each sees.

C.G.Johnson

“C.G.Johnson” will mark the end of any such piece.

Any further ramblings will be marked by either the title “Ramblings” or “Autobiography” or something like that.

Feel free to visit as often as you like, tell your friends, and make links.

It's time for me to head "once more into the breach." Goodby for now.

Chris