Poetry, Prose, and Lyrics by  Dan Johnson The Writing Forum’s Writer of the Month - July 2011   AUTHOR’S BIO: DL 'Dan' Johnson is the author of "Lester Briggs Died Today" and edited the anthology series "Writing Down the Words" for Sunset Empire Park and Recreation District, located in Seaside, Oregon. Dan has contributed to Authors Den on a regular basis since 2007. In addition, Dan taught a creative writing course for two years while living in Seaside. He now lives in Portland, Oregon where he is working on another book.. To read Dan’s essay published here at The Writing Forum, please click here. For Dan’s short story, please click here. ADDITIONAL LINKS: To visit Dan’s page at Authors Den, click here. For information about Dan’s book, “Lester Briggs Died Today”, please click here. Dan’s Email: DLJohnson365@gmail.com   DAN JOHNSON’S POETRY AND PROSE Click on any button in front of a title in the list below to be linked to that poem’s location on the page:   It Seems   Moon - haiku   Welcome Home   On That Rainy Alaskan Night   Why Betty Sings the Blues   Lay Me Down   Haiku in December   Keeping the Dark Spaces   Soft Rain - haiku   Inexplicable   Ten for 10   Loneliness is an empty room   Three one-line haiku - #2   Fat Boy Blues   Guy A Fly-Private Detective and        Owner of Fly on the Wall Detective Agency   Two Boys   Just a little crazy   The Leaf and the Nowhere Hole   Images in 15 Words   Mary’s Eyes   Loving Me is no temporary situation - lyrics   Go Poet, Go   Living   The Riff-Raff Club   Farewll - haiku   72 Words   84 Words   Never Been to Memphis Blues   Clouds from my 6th floor balcony   You’ll be fine   Words   Save Me   Because of You   Three layers of fog - haiku   Light and Rain - haiku   You’ll be fine   Night Sounds in the City   Three one-line haiku - #1   Tantric   Conundrum   Down on a Meadow Fair   It Seems © March 2012 Dan Johnson It seems Like the dreams, schemes and I-Beams Of my life Have gathered into The musty little cubicle designated …my life. Old friends, the dreams and schemes Recalling old times; good, bad, joyful and sad, in the end, though, they linger as dusty old playful dreams and foolish schemes. I saw myself as the “I” in the Beam, strong, wise, irreplaceable, shining brightly, holding tightly to an elusive dream. One day I awoke to realize that the control I had… Had been relegated to dreams deferred, recognizing wholeness without the “I” dlj   Moon Haiku © 2009 Dan Johnson Moon rises sun slides Eyes watch the stars light night sky sun says, my shift’s done   Welcome Home Dan Johnson © January, 2012 Each wave builds upon the next As salty blue green water embraces Sultry seductive sea-weed strewn mounds of sand It’s like a lover's kiss saying…welcome home   On That Rainy Alaskan Night © 2007 Dan Johnson Now that we’re separated by a thousand miles or more I linger in memories sweet, I long for you, and would love to share with you, The time we spent, I dream about those moments long ago, on that rainy Alaskan night. We watched a movie, who remembers the title? You moved closer, your fingers slipping into mine, I wanted to hold you, warm you, love you, You hit the pause button, only for the movie, But the plot thickened, romantically On that rainy Alaskan night, Then we kissed, it wasn’t an intentional slip… On my part, but I have to confess; Those lips, your lips, Were the sweetest lips I have ever kissed. Your lips were deliciously, seductively, erotically And memorably the taste I remember most From the time we shared while watching a movie, on that rainy Alaskan night...   Why Betty Sings the Blues © 2007 Dan Johnson Betty has had herself a real bad day, Seems like nothing’s going her way She lost her man, Lost her job, Landlord says she lives like a slob, And she got no money to pay her union dues, That’s why Betty sings the blues. No man to love her true, Old memories from way back when…is The only thing she has that is brand new. Betty cries Betty lies Betty sighs…”what’s the use” Maybe…that’s why Betty sings the blues. Poor old Betty…she sings those blues.   Lay Me Down © 2002 Dan Johnson When my life's finally done Sing me a song, a short diddy'l do me a favor, lay me down, yah lay me down on Williams Street. That's where I won a fight, lost a fight, and started a fire in the "Greek's" grass field. It was a crazy summer when I was ten, down on Williams Street.   Haiku in December © December, 2011 Dan Johnson Trees barren dead like Branches limbs trunks all ghostly Grey dead faded dreams ~*~ Springs speedy return Promises hopeful pledge Green lively lovely   Keeping the Dark Spaces © 2007 Dan Johnson I like dark spaces flying in and out of my two pounds of jumbling grayness From the shadows emerging to bright lights of; acceptance, rejection, abject denial of repentance I yearn for the day when critics light grows dim and dark places expand within, after all, that’s where I find refuge in those quiet, dark and peaceful spaces.   Soft Rain (haiku) © 2007 Dan Johnson Soft rain fell today Quiet droplets kiss the grass, Heaven’s agents play.   Inexplicable Dan Johnson © September, 2011 Inexplicable The mystery of our love Unexplainable I believe some things in life are meant to exist without explanation; they just sort of happen, like the day you came into my life, we could not have been more opposite, you were the peaches, I was the out of date cream. You saw through all my flaws and became the smoothness to my sandpaper finish.  For reasons far beyond my understanding, I am happy that our love is inexplicable.   Ten for 10 © 2008 Dan Johnson 10 days ago, you left me. 9 days ago, you returned 8 days ago, you slept with Maurice. 7 days ago, you cried, 6 days ago, you lied. 5 days ago, you were drunk, again. 4 days ago, you were hung over, again. 3 days ago, you were remorseful. 2 days ago, you flirted with Igor. 1 day ago, I left.   Loneliness is an empty room © 2007, August 31, 2011 Dan Johnson A table wobbles with uneven legs, A chair that creeks and groans with the weight of the world, An overhead light; filaments flicker with little hope to see through the night, rusty nails hide under the frayed old rug, cover the broken floor where nothing will ever be right. Loneliness is an empty room. A broken window looks exactly like a broken soul, Against drab and dusty walls were once clean and clear panes looking out to a Bright and hopeful future, but now, broken by time, souls shattered by the storms of life  Explain the pains running deep and jagged across bulging veins. Daylight cannot come too soon…because, Loneliness is like an empty room.    Three one-line haiku - #2 Dan Johnson © August, 2011 Fingers dance on piano keys the way rain kisses rose petals ***** Few words spoken we find heaven in the lost language of love ***** Water ripples lily pad floats tom toad smiling gently ‘croaks’   Fat Boy Blues Dan Johnson © 2004 Fat Boy, he never had no name, Born from Luzianna sugar cane; Never had him no claim to fame, Jes' rolled along playin' life's ol' game. When Fat Boy made it to 10 year old, Found him a friend, name o' Mr. Gold; Taught that boy to twang twelve strings And maybe three or two other things. Fat Boy's momma di'n't raise no fools; That boy never played by other folks' rules. He jes' lived, and loved to pick them blues, Always knowin' he'd have to pay his dues. Fat Boy loved to play every chance he got Played dives, every smoke-filled joint he could find, didn care if they paid a nickel or a dime Fat Boy made that place come alive Fat Boy din’t read a note, sweet talked his strings made the music float, From D to G Fat Boy was the King Of pluck’n those moan’n blues While struttn‘ roun in his silky blue Fat Boy Coat. Fat Boy played at One Eyed Jacks Up in Odessa, whilst there he met Sweet little girl name o Tessa, she stole his heart then made him out the fool and much poorer too. Fat Boy was broke, got a gig in Amarillo Sweet Tessa took his wallet, shoes, and 12-string too Didn’ take long for Fat Boy to discover The blacktop would be his pillow Fat Boy faded to a sad ol blue Said, I can live without my shoes, Money to, but without my 12-string Only thing to do is sing those Fat Boy Blues. Fat Boy blues, Fat Boy blues Without my 12-string, ain’t no good news Fat Boy sits here play’n Them Fat Boy Blues.   Guy A Fly-Private Detective and Owner of Fly on the Wall Detective Agency Dan Johnson © July, 2011 It was a dark and rainy night in Portland I was about to leave for the night when I smelled this absolutely delicious dish rolling through my office door. It was my old friend, little miss Pearly Peach, Pearly is a member of the Freestone clan and a dame of much distinction who convinced me to find her little cousin April Apricot. She did this by rubbing her soft smooth skin against my body (low bluesy saxophone music inserted here for dramatic affect) April had disappeared two days earlier; Pearly was afraid that April had gotten into a jam, but she had not left a hint as to where she could be. Even though it was raining and the wind was picking up, I flew in the direction April was last seen  (really hot guitar licks inserted here) I soon found myself in the kitchen of the Weeping Willow Restaurant where I immediately and literally became the fly on the wall. To my dismay I soon found what I was looking for…on the counter was a note that read “Tonight’s Salad Special” a Fun Festive Fruit Salad, including April Apricot, Babs Banana, Bob Blueberry, Sherry Cherry, Gus Guava, Lenora Lemon, Louie Lime, Marvin Mango, Nadine Nectarine and last but not least Stuart Strawberry. They had all been snatched and made ready for the slaughter. I had to do something…what could I do? My wings fluttered furiously then I calmed down and remembered I have “Super-Fly” powers, I can do this, I will save the day…I drew deep within my senses and brought out my mystical, magical manly mighty voice and with all my will I shouted…”Health Department!” While the chef was distracted looking for the schmuck from the health department, I called on my super fly powers one more time and allowed all my aforementioned fruity friends to fly away with me (Michael Buble breaks into “Fly Away With Me at this point, all leading to a dramatic but happy conclusion) And of course, I am in the lead. Another case solved by Guy A Fly, Private Detective   Two Boys © 2009 Dan Johnson Two boys travelled on the bus. One, a Tuesday Boy, The other, Wednesday’s lad, Each carried burdens deeply hidden away. Tuesday’s Boy spent his life in a chair, With wheels… that rolled him up and on the bus; But another set of wheels churned away inside his head. He spoke with his crooked fingers going in mayhem’s direction He touched his caregiver, first on her side, then trying in vain to stroke her short blond hair, she shied from his advances with a warning, ‘behave, stay away.’ Could he tell, did he know, was he aware, did he really care? Or did he crave the need to touch and be touched and held and loved? Wednesday’s Boy jumped on the bus, He greeted the driver with a handshake and hello. Hong, a Vietnamese lad of maybe 19 or 23, Sat next to me and first shook my hand then from nowhere, He wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me, “Where you from?” he asked “Chicago” is what I said. “I’m from Miami, you go to Miami?” “I’ve never been there, but would like to go.” “Go…you have fun in Miami…where you go now?” “Home” is all I said…“Me too” his sudden but quiet reply. Hong faded from friendly, outgoing, full of life… to sullen, mysteriously sad. Hong got off the bus somewhere on Milwaukie Avenue… just past QFC. As he prepared to leave I said, “Good-bye Hong,” he nodded and pleadingly stared at me. Two boys travelled on the bus. One boy, a Tuesday Boy, The other, Wednesday’s lad, Each carried burdens deeply hidden away.   Just a little crazy © 2007 Dan Johnson I been thinking lots about the past Whoa, how’d life go by so fast? Would you believe it was just a sweet dream …or two ago that I was dreaming about you? We walked in the summer breeze, no cares, a life to share. Then it was gone quicker than A three minute song, and promises made, were mixed like metaphors, you wearing Satin, I wore plaid, just once. Long time ago I learned you can’t change the past, But you can change; the way you think and the things you choose, just in case, choice number two, comes looking for you. and I have,  ….have you? We rode the merry-go-round and I smiled As you reached, ever so in vain for that brass ring That hung just out of reach, like life, that ring resembled those illusive dreams,  just another out of control, unreachable thing, too bad you said, got to go, see you after a little while. You went off and married that guy from Seattle, I went just a little crazy and for some time did battle With my mind, but I’m fine now, thanks for asking. For now I’m just thinking about the past…and Whoa, how’d life go by so fast?   The Leaf and the Nowhere Hole Dan Johnson © June, 2011 ~This poem was written while listening to a recording of Miles Davis playing Flamenco Sketch Often during falls chill when things change; green goes to gray, the air is crisper, the rain, a precursor to the coming snow, life for a leaf soon hangs by a bare thread, unsure of how much time it has until it is snatched from its perch, made ready for a fall from grace. It happens one day when one season makes way for another; the right pressure, followed by the loneliest sound a leaf can hear…it is like a lover leaving with those forever and final steps that it happens. From the top of this mighty maple down its hardened outstretched arms to float with little lift from the fall air to a cold crisp bed of grass then whoosh a gust of wind lifts the leaf, elevating to new heights of hoping, praying, looking skyward with the dreams that it would somehow be reattached to the now barren limb…rain falls what can this little leaf do to survive…pushed up by the wind pressed down by the rain, soon, the rain wins this battle and the leaf is left to soak in cold heartless baths of …a drain…where it circles, wrinkles, circles, folds in unnatural shapes and circles until it is gone to a nowhere hole never more to be the greatest leaf of them all.   Images in 15 Words Dan Johnson © June, 2011 A young woman sits alone Inked tears trail from swollen eyes, leaving a permanent stain.   Mary’s Eyes © 2008 Dan Johnson I do not see her as often as I use to, Mary broke a leg, required therapy, Mary has Alzheimer’s, does not remember Breaking her leg, Time of day, Weather is sunny or gray, Me. I am not offended that Mary does not remember me, She has good reason, just the other day, She asked her daughter, Cheryl, “Where are we going?” Cheryl replied with a little giggle under her breathe … “To the brink, Mother, to the brink!” However, what she really said was: “To the bathroom mother, to the bathroom!” I saw Mary about a month ago at a function, Walked up to her, Took her hand, Said “Hi Mary” She looked frightened, Mary looked beyond my eyes, I could not tell for sure, how far she could see, Or, on the other hand, what she saw. Mary turned her head to Cheryl and said, “Who is this strange person?” I was not offended. I have often, been referred to, by even my dearest of friends as ‘very strange.’ “Dan, Mother, its Dan! Don’t you remember, we see him all the time at Riley’s” Mary had a slight glimmer in her eyes and asked Cheryl, “What is Riley’s?” As if on cue, Cheryl and I smiled, rolled our eyes, we understood.   Loving Me is no temporary situation Dan Johnson May © 2010 There was a familiar sound to the opening of my squeaky front gate; A forewarning of your arrival, Trouble was, you were way too late. Your words today, sound the same as they did so long ago in that rainy fall when you whispered in my ear… ”Listen, my love, it’s the 4:59 heading south to a sunny spot, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back.” As you walked away such a long time ago, trailing from your lips you hollered this reminder, “Thanks for holding me tight, giving me love, making this arrangement a wonderful kind of celebration, I warned you when I first arrived… Baby… This has got to be a temporary situation.” Chorus: I was mad as hell and this is what I said: Loving you is not my idea of recreation, I did all of the giving, you did all of the taking But from now on… Loving me… Is not going to be a temporary situation. Loving me is not going to be … a…temporary situation. 2. Those words stung me straight through my heart as you ran to catch that train, Pain ran deep, I could not sleep, But I promised myself from that day forward, no matter what you’d say, No amount of kisses and smooches you could pay… Would ever be enough, Because my heart’s not for sale, I’m not living in eager anticipation Of you ever loving me, most of all, From now on, no more amorous speculation, No more sweet contemplation, And most of all, loving me will never more be called A temporary situation. Chorus: In case you are confused, let me explain; Loving you is not my idea of recreation, I did all of the giving, you did all of the taking But from now on… Loving me… Is not going to be a temporary situation. No, no, no, loving me is not going to be… A… Temporary situation.   Go Poet, Go Dan Johnson © April, 2011 ~April is National Poetry Month and these words are dedicated to each poet that struggles with the magic of words.  Go poet, go now to the darkest corner of your soul; search, peel and pry loose the words that lie hidden, bring them to the light of day. During those days when tired and feeble, your persistence, breaking down all forces of resistance will free you to pass through the eye of the needle…go poet Poet, go be the master builder; set the foundation, lift the frame, make steady the walls and see that the roof is secure to keep you free from the storms of distraction. Those words, your words, they must be kept safe and secure until the day you send them sailing away from your soul. Go now poet, be the builder. Poet, look for the alluring glow in each word treating each one as if it is your only true love. Romance each word, each line, each page, as you hold them close to your bosom, do not trifle with words for a word misused will be like a jilted lover on wings of despair, realizing, once gone, it is gone forever, go poet, go now. Poet, go, be true to yourself as you rail at the moon, rage out at the unjust, raise you’re oh so cynical eye and remorsefully sing the song of loss. Through tragedy there will still be a tomorrow; another sunrise, another sunset and with each coming and going you have a chance to turn sadness to joy, go poet, and go now.   Living Dan Johnson © April, 2011 Living Each day One uncertain day at a time Simply means another Day of Living For those of us who were born during a period of war, in my case World War II, it did not take long to realize that this world we were born into only offered one particular hope…and that being as long as we had air to breathe, sun to warm our souls and shelter from the rain, we would be given one more day to live. While we bore witness to atrocities in our own backyard and around the world, we were horrified at how cruel man can be to his fellow man. We shook our heads in sadness when leaders were slain at the hands of vile men; yet we also wept rivers of tears when our brothers and sisters returned from those far off fields where killings took place, and these brothers and sisters were brought home in flag draped caskets forever blinded by the joy of witnessing another sunrise or setting of the sun. We rant and rail at the antics of our politicians, and yes we laugh at the silly things they say and do; especially when they think they are leading, when what they are doing is following some golden ring that will serve their own good. Through all of this, the good and the bad, one constant remains. Living Each day One uncertain day at a time Simply means another Day of Living And that is a precious gift.   The Riff-Raff Club (A collection of prose assembled while waiting for the bus) Dan Johnson © March, 2011   Friday, it was cold and raining while I waited for the bus on SW 5th and there was an unusually large crowd of people waiting for their bus going to their side of town, God knows what they will do once they get there, but for this moment in time they are my captives and the camera inside my head slowly clicks images of their collective tired and depleted souls…is there not poetry in that thought?   We are all riff-raff in this journey of life; some of us smell better, speak better, dress better, but we are no more or no less than our fellow riff-raffians, sharing this space called a bus stop. Take for instance the upper middle-aged couple, dressed nicely, but not overly-stated. Clean would be an apt description. I suspect they are school teachers, I can say this because I have family and friends in that same trade, and because my camera discovers that this couple thrives on order and discipline; I think that is their lesson plan of life. There is something about this couple that smacks of unhappiness. Perhaps they are from Peoria. I have been to Peoria and it is a wonderful place to leave. I focus on her, she taught at Bradley University and he taught high school, metal shop perhaps, and right now they are wondering what they are doing in this strange town, surrounded by strange people trying to make sense out of their own strange circumstances. This couple does something redeeming to their existence, in that moment, as the #33 to the suburbs approaches, they hold hands walking together, slightly smiling, and quietly looking forward to their next great adventure, together.   You can ask anyone that has ever waited for a bus on SW 5th that it is like standing in a wind tunnel. Even on the warmest of days it is the coldest place in Portland to wait for a bus. I asked my friend Tim, a weather guy on one of our local TV stations why this was so and all he could say was “Dude, it’s just one of those things.”   I think the same thing applies to the next image my camera discovers. He is way too young to look so old. He is wearing old clothes, his pants are a faded battleship gray, his cuffs are frayed, his shoes worn and scuffed, mirroring his life. He moves laboriously with a cane, carrying the frame of an old spirit. Finally he is wearing an old scar that runs deeply from his eye down past his lips along the left side of his face. I believe he is a veteran, maybe he fought in Iraq or Afghanistan, no matter what war he was sent to fight, he is like many veterans today, he has returned home only to discover that he now has to fight the war of survival; survival amongst this league of riff-raff soldiers, simply waiting for a warm safe place to lay their heads. My suspicions are confirmed, here comes the #8 which will take him up to the Veteran’s Hospital. My hope for him as he moves toward the bus is that somehow, someway he finds the peace he deserves.   There are others that share membership in the riff-raff club, for instance there is the old black woman, bent, scowling at anyone and everyone that comes into her line of sight. She shows her contempt for life by spitting on the sidewalk, daring anyone to take her on. Standing under the canopy is the Hasidic hippie. He is heavy set with a very full beard. He bows his head back and forth and mumbles incoherently at an imaginary wall. While displaying his head bobbing skills, his Roy Rogers hat moves in time with the movement of his head, the assemblage of rings attached to his ears, lips, nose and other parts left only to the imagination are but a back drop for the tats he displays on his arms, which state on one arm “Jesus Loves Me” and “Myrna in Miami” on the other arm.   At last my bus arrives, the #19-Woodstock, but before I can board, a smartly dressed young woman, I would say about 25, no older, steps in front of me just as I am about to step up to show my bus pass. This young woman has taken great care in color coordinating her wardrobe, shoes, skirt, blouse, make-up, it is all so perfect, even her rudeness. She is speaking on her cell phone and waving a transfer slip in the driver’s face, but the driver is having none of her nonsense and tells her the transfer is outdated, meanwhile I am still on the outside looking in. The driver waves her in while she is still speaking on her phone to only god knows who. I am not alone in my desire to board the nice warm bus, there is also Mr. Preppy…My guess is that he teaches at Portland State University, a safe assumption since the bus stops right at PSU, just before it heads for the suburbs. I am right! Mr. Preppy is taking notes on a legal pad which as it turns out are for a class that starts very soon. When the driver announces the PSU stop, Mr. Preppy looks up from his legal pad, checks his watch and non verbally tells everyone…’look at how pretty I am, with my pressed dark blue slacks, light blue striped shirt, accented by my medium blue sweater. My hair is slightly tussled, but I paid $45.00 to look so tumble dried.’ There he goes along with Ms. Uptight who is still holding her damned phone to her ear. The funny thing is no one really cares about their over indulgence of self-importance.   These are just a select few of the many members in good standing of the Riff-Raff Club. If you want to join us at our next meeting, we would love to see you at the bus stop Monday morning. Until then this meeting of the riff-raff club is adjourned.     Farewell (Haiku) Dan Johnson © March, 2011 Monster approaches Frozen by powerful wave Sweeps in sweeps me out   72 Words Dan Johnson © February, 2011 What would it be like? Without those voices inside my head I try in vain to sleep Between the sheets of depression I call my bed If I asked nicely, Would you leave? Would you pack your bag of tricks? And finally let me breathe Well, would you? My mind sits idled at the intersection of Push and pull While cacophonous sounds of horns and shrilling cries Leave me… empty   84 Words Dan Johnson © January, 2011   Today my words are scattered: Hiding, yet lurking in all the corners of my mind; if this is hide and seek, would it be cheating if I took a peak? Right now my words are cluttered: Totally disorganized without purpose or direction; looking for a little charity, would the word doctor please give me clarity? Like my youth, today my words are sadly misspent: Using big words where little words would do; not sure where each word goes, please forgive if I appear verbose.   Never Been to Memphis Blues Dan Johnson © 2010-May I been to Nashville, Even went up to Capitol Hill, Once I went to New… York… City, Rubbed myself in all its gritty…Sins and so on… with llof this I been everywhere, way of life, I had to buy a new pair o’ Blue suede shoes, When I get lowly down, a sad songs a playin’ inside my head, just bouncin’ all aroun’ guess I’ll be goin’, I hear the voice of Marc Cohn, so I’m leavin’ now, ‘cause I got those never been to Memphis blues.   Clouds from my 6th floor balcony Dan Johnson © July 4, 2010 It is 6 am, July 4, 2010…and A huge cloud hangs over Portland. Not dark, threatening or foreboding clouds, no rain, But more like a soft grayish pink blanket, placed there to protect a million sleeping babies. Off to the west beyond the city skyline, Beyond the west hills, I see clear blue skies… Gently nudging my cloud to “Go east young cloud, go east” Blue skies are saying, “Enough, enough, you’ve done your job, now scatter off to Mt. Hood, Rise high, wave to the people as they float by” My flag waves proudly above the tree line, above the streets soon to be busy, Above the passing lives…just waving at the world…my flag feels a slightly gentle breeze, Flag slow dances kissed by the wind, knowing that before this day is over; it will dance Wild and free moving to the cadence of a marching band, and the cloud… The cloud has moved southeast now, if cloud hurry’s it can reach Mt. Hood by breakfast, or brunch…but who eats brunch on July 4, 2010? Not me, because I will be right here watching the world from my 6th floor balcony.   You’ll be fine © 2009 Dan Johnson An old friend tells me she has cancer over dinner We got together for dinner, You said, you had bad news I could tell instantly You were scared I hear it in your voice, I see it in your eyes, I feel it in the tremble of your heart, What do I say? Where do I start? You smile and say “Luckily they say it’s early stage, They caught it, just in time.” My response is feeble, I take a bite of food, and cheerfully reply, “Great, that’s great, you’ll be fine.” My words fail like a politician’s promise, They fall like steak with no sizzle. My lie is spoken with a hope, I want you to be fine, I want you strong I don’t know if you’ll be fine, I only want you that way.   Words © January 2011 Dan Johnson Bullets for ballots So the angry person said At random six dead You are in our scope Words hyperbolic vile filled Child never lost hope Words that set the fire Spoken by politicos Etched mad mans desire When will this madness end?   Save Me (Won’t you save my life tonight?) © 2007 Dan Johnson ~This poem is dedicated to the nameless,  faceless souls that live next door to you, and me. Daddy worked on an assembly line, made good money, things seemed fine; then one night he came home to sadly say that he lost his job to a Guy in Calcutta, New Delhi, or Timbuktoo…but now It’s going on seven o’ clock tonight We haven’t eaten yet, Nothing seems right. Daddy found work for half the pay, Works all night too. Mama’s taking care of the baby poor things crying with the croup. Daddy’s trying Mama’s crying And I don’t know what to do. Won’t someone save me? Won’t you save my life tonight? Can’t you, can’t you see, I need someone to save my life tonight. Landlord said rent by tomorrow, Baby’s still crying, tough living In a home filled with so much sorrow. Mama said they cut the heat, no wonder I’m freezing up through The holes in my shoes, to my boney feet.  It’s a dirty shame no one…no, no,  no one knows who we are; it’s like we have no name, but Daddy’s still trying Mama’s always crying And I don’t know what to do Won’t someone save me? Won’t you save my life tonight? Can’t you, can’t you see? I need someone to save my life tonight?   Because of You © 2010 Dan Johnson Preacher said, the teacher said, and momma cried, when she said It was because of you, And Lucinda Williams Whispering … (Oh, I can’t say what you were whispering) In my ears… But it was because of you That I became lonely and Robert Cray blue. It is hard to follow or even comprehend How my life could have bent Like a newly planted willow Not yet trained to weep Because of you, I was left In the pouring rain, Enduring, endlessly through the pain, Never breaking, constantly twisting and turning, Like an uninvited summer wind blowing and burning, Because of you and Lucinda, and the pain of ungodly sin, I can still hear Dwaine Eddy slice through a sweet refrain And because of you, I would do it all over, again.   Three layers of fog-Haiku © November, 2010 Dan Johnson ~*~ Fog lays low hovers waits until the right moment sun sneaks peaks fog gone ~*~ Love hovers lingers waits until the right moment sparks fly romance high ~*~ Fog lifts leaves sweet mist waits until the right moment hearts heavenly kissed ~*~   Light and Rain - Haiku Dan Johnson © 2010  the hills shine with smiles from noon day suns beaming light gentle rain follows   You’ll be fine © 2009 Dan Johnson We got together for dinner, You said, you had bad news I could tell instantly You’re scared I hear it in your voice, I see it in your eyes, I feel it in the tremble of your heart, What do I say? Where do I start? You smile and say “Luckily they say it’s early stage, They caught it, just in time.” My response is feeble, I take a bite of food, and cheerfully reply, “Great, that’s great, you’ll be fine.”  My words fail like a politician’s promise, They fall like steak with no sizzle.. My lie is spoken with a hope, I want you to be fine, I want you strong I don’t know if you’ll be fine, I only want you that way.   Night Sounds in the City © 2009 Dan Johnson  She knocks, no she gently taps on my front door telling me that it’s time as day light sneaks away She persists, I resist, But she wins… She always wins, Then like warm vapors of summer air She slips inside night dreams. Her song filled with a syncopated chorus of crickets chirping, car doors slamming their night time pain, all in the presence of night time rain. Sirens wail and night talk prevails by those passing by my window… She soothes my troubled soul with sweet strokes, leading me through a concert of night sounds in the city. The train moves south lamenting another long night The plane heads north, gaining altitude going who knows where The dog on the fourth floor, Barks out at the night, for all he is worth. I fall asleep surrounded by the music of the night sounds in the city   Three one-line haiku - No 1 Dan Johnson © September, 2010 Sun hides its shining face October rains fall sweetly with grace ***** First comes the bread followed by peanut butter and strawberry jam, how grand ***** Little hands stretched high wondering how did God put those clouds in the sky   Tantric Dan Johnson © June, 2010 You to me to you Our intimate mutual Pleasure is tantric. Our moments together can last beyond the sands of time, endure the raging winds, and last longer than quick but unfulfilling acts of simple, sexual gratification. This is how we build our time of sexual pleasure with each other. Our eyes are wide open, you see the blue sky in me and I see the peaceful green fields through you. Our eyes never close when we are together…with each other, only seeing love. Our breaths are in perfect unison. When I inhale, you exhale at the same time. We breathe warm, welcoming winds of love. We become one in love, we become sexually orchestrated. We breathe as one; we see as one, we touch as one. Together, moment by moment we inch closer and closer, and with each movement; an unstoppable energy ignites within us, like nothing ever has. When we touch each other, when we fold into each other, when we whisper little things that heighten our senses, we draw still closer thinking this is the moment, this is the time, This is the time we must explode, but we wait! We breathe, we touch, we begin again and build on those same kindling acts that spark fires that never extinguish, and we love all night long, gazing, breathing, touching, and building a love that is tantric.   Conundrum Dan Johnson © July 13, 2010 Have you ever felt so emotionally drawn to something, anything, anyone, yet you knew that as right as you felt about that “thing” no matter what; you also knew that there was another force at work that says, I know who I am, but who I am will always stand lurking, silently in the shadows. There is no black or white, no right or wrong? That is a conundrum, an enigma, a question within a question…your head and your heart work on separate wave lengths, and for some inexplicable reason, you don’t know why, you just know. My heart beats,        With syncopated sweetness every time you come in view My head reasons,        You are no good, shouldn’t have a thing to do with you, but like winter's blast Cold winds blow,        Frozen in my steps, can’t go forward, can’t go back. While calm winds mysteriously go        Messing with my head, dropping in on my dreams, suggesting erotic schemes Do I go left or do I go right,        Hard to tell, confusion keeps me on the run Am I wrong, or am I right?        Guess that’s why this love is called…conundrum….   Down on a Meadow Fair Dan Johnson © 2004 Fear, doubt, sadness, Thought my head was full of madness. Certain things would not go away, Kept thinking about them every day, Every day, every day, every day. Thought all the brain cells were quickly fading to a dismal gray. Took a journey one bright day To see what the spirits had to say. Went deep…far deeper then I’d ever been. In meditation, interior inspection, Quiet reflection, Gave over every care, Down on a meadow fair. Silence, filled my room Silence next to death All around me, No thought about. Time, Place, Reason, Just went deeper To those recesses Of my mind Just went further To the shadows of my life. Floating freely In a downward fall, Moving but not knowing Aware but oblivious Feeling the force In the vortex, To this abode called, mysterious Then a voice softly said, Welcome to the place That your soul you’ll bare, Down on a meadow…fair. Was this heaven? Or was this hell? My guide said, Hard to tell, Because in the end It all depends on you. Don’t worry he went on, I’m not here to judge Your life Right from wrong, My job is take you To where you need to be For in this journey Of introspection, Don’t you seek to Break the chains, To be set free? Onward in silence Past places of my life Some good Some bad Vagaries of remembrance, I held his hand as the Trek continued, Soft, safe, pleasurable Was the connection Of him to me. Then I had to ask myself, What is it I expect to see, Down on a meadow fair? Won’t be long he said, Over this knoll, Past this darkened hole, Just keep looking Straight ahead. See, he said, Over there Where the creek runs gentle Where the breezes resemble, Peace and satisfaction. Closer…a little closer Upon a rock sat a form, Closer…a little closer, That rock etched the word called life, Closer…a little closer Form moved, turned around Cut me to my heart, With a two-edged knife We sat there wordless Eye to eye, did we stare Down on this meadow fair. Mind turning twisting tumbling But we knew each other’s thoughts. Said this vision, Wisdom of my life is what I sought. I said a simple yes… Stay, sit, and talk openly, I’ll give you answers I’ll do my best. Closer…a little closer I started learning, the truth of me. What I saw By the gentle stream, Where waters of peace, And sunlight’s beam, This journey would soon run its course, Not long did I have I felt no remorse, Matter of fact For the first time ever, I felt unbound, I felt free, For on that day Down on a meadow, fair, I came face to face With me. When I awoke, Tired, from my journey deep, But alive, with a new found vision Of whom I happen to be. Thanks to the guide, Thanks to the other me, Now that I know What it means to be free.