Jerry the Ant

The future keeps a tight lip.

The past just won't shut up.

The architect that

cranks the wheel 

keeps coffee in its cup.

Miss Karma sips on sweet tea 

and waves a paper fan;

and Jerry heads

to work again

in a primer-gray sedan,

were cities grow like ant hills 

in fields of golden corn,

and ants for miles 

keep pressing on

the gas and break and horn.

And Jerry keeps a tight lip.

His head just won't shut up.

Then he runs a light 

and cranks the wheel...

Jerry, please wake up.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

#AhmaudArbery

I thought I would edit this before considering if finished, but decided not to. The following was my gut response last week after reading about Ahmaud Arbery's murder.

Ahmaud

I do not want
my white privilege.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It does not hurt me
I confess.
It makes my life easy.
It helps me, it does.
It hurts others -
the non-members
of my club -
the white club.
I'm in the club,
though I did not sign up.
I get the benefits,
though I pay no dues.
The non-members
pay my dues.
Black and brown people
pay my dues.
It's a screwed up system.
It builds walls to keep
brown people out -
walls to keep brown
people in - corridors
to push them
this way, and that.
It replaces walls
with minefields and
calls it progress.
It taunts, it lies, it exploits.
It kills, it kills, it kills.
But it helps me.
But I want to reject it.
It does not elevate me.
It elevates no one.
It leaves me
standing in mud -
in the mud of
a shameful past.
It leaves us all standing
in the mud of
a shameful past -
and the mud is still here
because the blood and
the tears still flow.
The mud will not dry
because the blood and
the tears still flow -
the blood of young men,
the tears of mothers.
The endless tears
of an entire race
keeps moist the mud -
a mud first formed
from the sweat
of their ancestors -
the builders of America.
I step up, but I sink
back down.
My life is easy,
but my feet are dirty.

R.L. Johnson 5/7/2020

Mirror Mirror

Driving home from the store this morning I thought, I wonder how fast I’d have to go to make my side mirrors flap back against the side of the truck? I cogitated on the question for a moment – gathering up the variables in my mind – wind force, air resistance, mirror bracket tension, barometric pressure, relative humidity, and so forth… Heck, just give ‘em all a number – add, divide, and multiply in all the right places – maybe throw in a square root or two, and “POW!” you got your vehicle speed. But I’m not very good at doin’ algebra in my head, so I skipped ahead to the practicality considerations of the matter. If I’m driving fast enough to make my mirrors flap back, I’m probably not gonna need my mirrors - so no reason not to do it… Unless the guy behind me is trying to make his hood ornament fly off, but that would be highly unusual, so I figured I wouldn’t worry about that. At this point of my pondering, I was just cresting the top of Graham Hill – the perfect place to try to go 900mph in a Toyota Tundra. Should I? Shouldn't I? then I realized – if my mirrors flap back, the improved aerodynamics would likely propel me beyond 1,000mph in an instant. Well that would surely add a mile or two to my stopping distance should a rabbit jump out in front of me… not to mention I’d blow past my turn up ahead… So I proceeded home at my normal speed. Up near 288th Street I saw a hood ornament laying on the side of the road… I know what you’re thinkin’…  Man! He must have been flying!

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Gallery Phantasm

"Go ahead,"
I say, distracted,
"I'll catch up,"
but I don't.

Instead I stand
mesmerized by an
inexplicable light - by
cascading dapples of
brightness beams and
sparkles, flying like
diamond-shot bursting
from unseen artillery.

Standing steadfast
before me, with light -
this bright insoluble
light at its back,
a grove of ancient
trees lifts its golden
canopy high upon
silhouetted branches.

Beyond the trees -
behind a grassy ridge,
an army of rebels
fighting darkness with
torches and ramrods,
tamp luminance deep
into black iron cannon
barrels. From here they
fire volley after blinding
volley into the trees
as they have without
pause for centuries.
Cannon light crashes
through the wood,
rips through the canvas,
and scatters at my feet.

I approach closer,
spellbound by the
dancing illuminations
that backlight the
dry spice colored
leaves of these
deep-rooted trees.
I stare through the
wizened foliage,
following flecks of
silver glint backwards,
deep into the scene -
deep into the painting
that hangs before me.

I look beyond the
stillness and into
the motion of the
brush strokes;
at the light flitting,
at the leaves rustling,
floating, falling -
scuttling along
the forest floor -
pushed by winds,
and pulled by time. 

I watch sinuous bands
of fog hang lazy o're
the grassy ridge.
Rising above the fog
climb layer upon layer
of dark foreboding
mountainous rock,
pressed down by a
moody autumn sky.

"Go ahead,"
I said, distracted,
"I'll catch up".
But I didn't.

A new assemblage
of gallery patrons
now mingle around
me - murmuring at
the painting with
the backlit trees.
They observe it, nod,
and move on from
frame to frame, fading
from my notice until
their mumbled voices
fall and blow away
across the floor.

After the chamber
empties of all eyes
save mine, and the
last footfall's echo stills,
the painting begins
to increase its
animated activities.

At first it moves almost
imperceptibly. Then
with the intricacy and
dexterity of a woman
removing her bra
while fully clothed,
the painting slips out
of its frame and hangs
adrift in the cool air,
slowly undulating.

Then in tones that are
neither sound nor color,
the escaped painting
cries out - summoning
its creator. Time and
distance bridge like
water drops bumping
and joining together.
Out of nothingness
the artist with his
tools appears, and
the unbound work
settles lightly on its
old master's easel.

I lean and look over
the painter's shoulder,
watching his arm and
brush as they sweep
hither and thither
serpent-like, adding,
blending, pushing
and pulling colors
across the canvas.

Aromas of oil and
solvent, pigment,
and earth, fill the air.
Then, as one might
see by turning a
kaleidoscope wheel,
the scene multiplies.
Sounds erupt in
multiple languages
and the room fills
with a flurry of activity.

Painters by the dozens
are working on their
canvasses along every
wall of the gallery.
They work with
instruments large
and small, with strokes
long and short, light
and bold - applying
pigments of every hue.

Eventually one painter
sets down her brush
and walks to another
easel. Each artist in
time does the same -
pausing to admire
the creativity of others.
Some stand gazing
into the past, while
others stand gazing
far into the future.
All are connected -
connected forever
through the conduit
of their art, and the
conductivity of the paint.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

The Farmer's Wife

When the 
pitchfork tines
shot 'tween his ribs, 
he knew 
she wasn't kidding.
And all who knew 
the family said
the farmer's end 
was fitting.

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Navel Gazing

Are little kids self-conscious these days? The ones I see don't seem to be, but wow, I sure was. When I was around six years old, a little girl asked me if I had an innie or an outie. The subject was belly buttons, and I was mortified.

"An innie?" I'd seen a few innies in my day, and as they flashed through my panicked mind, they all seemed to belong to chubby kids. "Oh God! If I have an innie, she'll think I'm fat! Okay Randy, breath. Maybe you have an outie. Yeah maybe it's a... Noooo!!" my brain screamed as I suddenly remembered Scotty - big-time outie. Surely I would have noticed if I had an outie like that. No, it wasn't possible. But now with Scotty's outie on my mind, even a little outie was unacceptable. "I wish I didn't have a belly button. I wish this little girl would mind her own business!"

R.L. Johnson, 2020

Below the Saw Mill

St Regis Lumber Co. (circa 1977)

Withered and bent,
a hunchback man
in morning stands.
Steam-driven rods
thrust and clank
o'er his vault of toil,
deafening, dank.
The building shakes
as cables snake
past creosoted beams.
Once tall and lean,
now bent, unclean
of sweat and steam,
the old man sweeps.
The small dark room
of bench and broom
from which he sweeps
to earn his keep -
I still see clearly
in my sleep.
There long ago -
there was a crack,
and cables took
as cables do
when cables snap -
the shortest route
from me to you.
Steel breached
his flesh and bone.
And doctors mended
what they could,
and thus it came to be.
Now old and bent,
it goes unspoken,
"A lucky man is he
for he is not
completely broken".
And leaders of the company
did show some generosity
with calculated loyalty -
the type you find in industry -
for nothing here is given free.
An offer made
was accepted,
and thus it came to be.
A family, pride,
and bills to pay
every day, now
keep him 'neath
the great machine,
to toil and keep
his basement clean,
while o'er his head,
steam pressure makes
the mighty head-rig lunge.
Teeth of saw blades
tear the air,
and into timber plunge.
Slabs of hemlock
feed the mill,
and sawdust falls
like snow -
between the cracks,
as he has -
to the concrete floor below.
With dirt-black face
and empty eyes,
into the broom
he leaned,
the morning that I met him,
when I was just eighteen.

R.L. Johnson, revised 2019