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Ken Johnson Poem
There is a mystical library that we can visit every night.
A place of long remembrance that's neither dark nor light.
It's a place that holds no happiness and equally no sorrow
that's as close to us as yesterday but farther than tomorrow.
Somewhere in the twilight, as sleep upon me crept,
I found myself looking at my own form as I slept.
The peaceful look upon my face said I was not aware
of my impending visit to a sanctum in the air.
I felt myself transported far away – onward I soared
yet I remained attached to "me" with a silver cord.
The meaning of the journey and the strangeness that I saw
were clear to me when I found within the universal law.
Light flooded me from within, where I previously was blind
and illuminated my connection to a universal mind.
I was not alone – not an island in the seas -
but a part of all the stars and even galaxies.
From the smallest to the largest, as far as I could see
we're all apart of one, in perfect harmony.
And there before me lay, the story of my life.
It listed every victory and detailed every strife.
I saw the acts of pettiness, the hurt that I had caused,
the kindnesses, the gentleness, the omissions as I paused,
the hesitations to stand strong, the gossip I had spread,
the smiles shared, the broken hearts and tears that had been shed.
With every action taken, as we live and laugh and bleed,
we are each responsible for the life that we choose to lead.
We are each a voice in a chorus, and this life is the song we sing.
We are each a part of the melody of pain and joy that it brings.
The knowledge seemed to slowly dim with the rising sun.
The cause and affect of the universe had once again begun.
As I prepared to face the day, in the mirror I saw a man.
I cannot right the wrongs he's done – but I'll try the best I can.
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Ken Johnson Poem
At dawn's last light, as taps are played,
the colors are retired.
Thoughts of the sacrifices made
leave me feeling inspired.
I've heard it said "It's just a flag –
no more than cloth that's sewn"
as though it's just a colored rag
forgetting where it's flown.
It saw first light at Prospect Hill
during our nation's birth;
unfurling in the morning chill
over that hallowed earth.
It flew with pride, o'er those, alone,
who never fled the fight;
their valor for this country's shown
in Francis Scott Key's write.
And even in our saddest hour,
the union ripped apart,
it symbolized a higher power
and healed a nation's heart.
In dark days of the world at war,
under a foreign sky,
it epitomized the oath we swore
that freedom would not die.
The tower twins lay side by side,
felled by hate's cruel stroke
and yet our banner flew with pride
above the dust and smoke.
At dawn's last light, I hear taps blow,
the colors are retired.
The words I learned, long years ago,
come forth as if inspired:
"I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America,
and to the republic for which it stands,
one nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all."
Happy 4th of July
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2016
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Ken Johnson Poem
The dark enchantress of my dreams
calls me, each night, in her soft voice
and traps me with her tender schemes.
The dark enchantress of my dreams
is never satisfied it seems;
she offers me no other choice.
The dark enchantress of my dreams
calls me, each night, in her soft voice.
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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Ken Johnson Poem
I watch the dawn’s first light softly caress
your sleeping form. My heart is overcome
with feelings, oft-forgotten I confess,
of how entwined our lives and love’s become.
Time, like a river, wears our passions down
as life distracts us from the path we planned.
It’s in these mundane waters that we drown;
our dreams are scattered like the ocean’s sand.
Yet, not unlike the moon’s pull on the tide,
our love, in silence, guides us on our way.
A mystic force that cannot be denied;
that followed, will not lead our hearts astray.
I watch... and once more wonder fills my soul -
how two entwined are stronger than each whole.
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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Ken Johnson Poem
Idle words dance; leaves in the wind.
I walk the streets, somewhat chagrined,
as they whirl about unconfined.
Their magic takes root in my mind.
Within myself, I come to see
the treasures amongst the debris.
Reality is left behind.
Their magic takes root in my mind.
Words take on a life of their own
with images, hither unknown,
lifting dark veils from eyes once blind.
Their magic takes root in my mind.
Idle words dance; leaves in the wind.
Their magic takes root in my mind.
----------------------------------------------------
"My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living." -- Anais Nin
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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Ken Johnson Poem
"Use protection," was her first demand
followed by a long list of what's banned.
By the time she was through
there was little to do
so, I think I'll just stick with my hand!
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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Ken Johnson Poem
The moon meanders,
consuming the seconds,
minutes, hours
until it fades in the dawn.
Still, I wait.
The clouds dance their misty
ballet in the sky playing
hide and seek with the stars.
Still, I wait
The morning mist dances
on a stage of pastel hues,
swirling and repainting a landscape
that passes before my unseeing eyes.
Still, I wait
I wait for my heart to fill
with the winds of passion
and take me to undiscovered
places…
I wait for the forgiveness
found in love.
I wait
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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Ken Johnson Poem
The tang of salt imbues the mist –
a calling I cannot resist.
I walk along the rocky shore
held spellbound by the ocean’s roar.
As darkness falls, the fog rolls in
and, from the lighthouse, shapes begin
to stalk within the opaque veils
like illustrations of its tales.
The cloying haze seems to transcend
reality, here at land’s end.
I see the ghosts of tortured souls,
their names inscribed on filmy scrolls.
There stands a lover who lost hope,
there a traitor, wrapped in rope,
a lost ship’s crew, still foundering
and fighting off the storms of spring.
Above it all, the lighthouse stands
illuminating within bands
of light this silent history
of struggles with the mighty sea.
A small breeze starts, a whispering,
a dirge that only oceans sing,
and soon the air is once more clear,
though I can feel the ghosts still near.
I sit upon the rocks and stare
out to the sea and wonder where
the lost souls seen now reside.
They ebb and flow like time and tide.
Copyright © Ken Johnson | Year Posted 2025
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