Poetry from DanaLynne Johnson

TUMBLING
By DanaLynne

 

TUMBLING down into
Daylight, trying to land with
Aplomb, with courage,
And not to stagger,
Reach groundward, gracefully,
Arriving from darkness,
Having been evicted
From night for too much laughter,
Not enough silence.
When I land, feet first,
Knees bent, all the stars applaud
A safe arrival.

 

TRANSCRIBER OF DREAMS
By DanaLynne

 

One word
Uttered on high
And I, a seed,
Exist:
Amoeba or
Zebra.
The power of 
Creation lies
Beyond me,
And I, unaware,
Take up space
Set aside just for my body,
My spirit, my
Mind.
From the mind,
Through intervention, comes
This parade,
Idea 
After idea.
Unlike my own origination,
The invention of me,
The thought of me,
The sounds and visions
That fall from my lips,
Stream out of my fingers,
Are only the result of
Being the transcriber
Of dreams,
The artist struggling
To find just the right palate,
Just the right weight of words
Before I can place them
Gently, lovingly upon
The page
*******
*******
SEVEN BILLION

by DanaLynne Johnson

here on this
spinning blue-green
ellipse,
I share air and water
with seven billion
paper dolls-
so tall, so thin,
varied colors,
and yet
our worlds
are separated
by language:
I don’t understand–
not completely–
the vocabulary of vision:

 

when someone
describes
a place,
a face,
a fleeting gesture,
I am left
in a void.
what is crimson, really,
but a word.
azure? emerald? Baby blue?
forest green
is just a succession of letters
as far as I’m concerned.

 

I don’t speak vision: i talk sound.
I talk touch, smell, taste,
all because of atrophy,
a fracture of a connection
between eye and brain,
between here and there,
between day and night,
black and white,

 

I can describe
the texture of brick,
its weight
the softness of feathers,
the weight of stones,
the sound–the sensation–
 of water
rushing,
falling,
dripping,
the click of a lock,
the slam of a door.

 

I can hear anger
in a voice,
hesitation that might
as well announce a lie.
I hear words
behind other words–
secrets behind spoken,
spilled syllables.
once they fall, it’s
impossible to gather
them back up,
put them back–
no unrung bell.

 

seven billion paper people,
cardboard cities,
flat earth,
steam-roller universe:
I know it isn’t real:
I can touch,
I can experience
all three dimemntions.
height is real.
width is real.
depth is the question only
two hands can prove
convincingly,
irrevocably.
I don’t shake hands
with paper people.
I don’t enter–
I don’t exit–
cardboard facades.

 

I eat
real food, I drink
full-figured water.
the world goes through
my fingers one reality
at a time, one
lesson–
one truth–
at a time.
questions find their
counterparts, compatriots
as days sweep  through
and carry me relentlessly,
ruthlessly,
captured in
the current.
I am not alone.
I am one of seven–
seven billion:
seven billion–
and counting.

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