[ultimate_heading main_heading=”pj johnson *Featured Poet* – Issue.XXVI : March 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″]the Yukon poet laureate[/ultimate_heading]
[interactive_banner banner_title=”pj johnson” banner_desc=”The Yukon Poet Laureate with exceptional talents in singing, composing, writing and performing arts.” banner_image=”id^5090|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/pj-johnson-yukon-laureate.jpg|caption^null|alt^pj johnson poet|title^pj johnson yukon laureate|description^null” banner_height=”ult-banner-block-custom-height” banner_height_val=”350″ banner_bg_color=”#1e73be” banner_overlay_bg_color=”rgba(118,157,191,0.56)”]
Read the poems by pj johnson
as i walk into the green garden
and as i walk into the green garden
that is always dying
the faces
of the lost ones
still blossoming before me
like so many
brightly-colored flowers
that never fade
forever
my mother –
her old bones
asleep on the hill
overlooking the ranch
above a crumbling cabin
that echoes yet
with story
keep watch
keep track
as butter-fat wolf-pups
wrestle with the frosted ends
of snow-covered moose bones
and ravenous ravens
laughing like magpies
swoop down from stunted jackpines
to scour the boreal vista
vying forever for whatever leftovers
are left
my heart has memorized
the saddle-straddled coffin
and a line of sad-faced mourners
moving slowly forward
behind a rider-less Red Fox pony
escorting The Yukon Horse Woman
home
carrying her up that mountain
one last time
where goes the green of summer
when northwinds come
to howl away the sun
what’s left of the fatted calf
that once was life
that hovers now ghost-like
upon some foreign horizon
where do the living
really go
a sudden burst of wolf wind
thrashes through the buckbrush
quieting the neigh of gentle horses
caressing my friendless ear
as if in answer
and the sun rises higher
than god
as the sparkling midnight waters
begin to dance across the lake
“because I am a sled dog”
because I am a sled dog
I have no voice
I can only speak to you
with my eyes
with my bark
and with the wagging of my tail
if I could talk to you
I would tell you that I worship you
and that my only wish
is to be with you
to be loved and adored
and to be wanted for who I am
I would tell you
I am a living breathing being
much like you
that feels love and joy and pain
and if I could only speak to you in words
I would tell you all these things
I would tell you I am here
to do your bidding
even if that means running a thousand miles
in a brutal race I didn’t choose to run
even if it means
I might suffer and die
for you are my world
my greatest joy
and I only live to please you
I would protect you with my life
if you asked me to
all I ask in return
is that you love me back
howlin’ time
when the haunting howl of grey wolf
cuts across the arctic air
and you stand beneath the mountain
and the frost is in your hair
and your soul is bent and bleeding
but there’s nothin’ you can do
you’re awake and yet you’re dreaming
all there is is god and you
it’s howlin’ time
and you are part of everything
and everything is you
yet you walk along forgotten
by a world you never knew
and your life is like a season
when the moon has gone insane
and it shimmers down your shoulder
comes to life and dies again
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
when the spirits of the lost ones
come to walk with you again
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
when there’s only god and you
it’s howlin’ time
so you wander in the willows
and you cut across your pain
and there’s magic in the treetops
and a raven calls your name
and your eyes are bright with sonnets
and you wonder if you’re sane
as the spirits of the lost ones
come to walk with you again
it’s howlin’ time
and you ask about your mother
and the child that never was
as a thousand answers leave you
but the question never does
and you reach out to your father
he’s a million miles away
he’ll be gone by monday morning
but by god he heard you pray
it’s howlin’ time
and you know that he is dying
and you know that no one cares
as you stumble up the mountain
and the frost is in your hair
and you hunger for a reason
and you hunger for a clue
and you hunger for a season
but there’s only god and you
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
when the spirits of the lost ones
come to walk with you again
it’s howlin’ time
it’s howlin’ time
when there’s only god and you
it’s howlin’ time
when there’s only god and you
it’s howlin’ time
set not your face in grief
set not your face in grief against the wind
this death is but a word
that wanders in the night
planting sorrow in the hearts of men
cast down the seed
set not your face in grief against the wind
i am the rose so full of life i cannot die
celebrate me
for this death means nothing
i am beauty in full bloom
set not your face in grief against the wind
for i am new and perfect
like the snow that falls around you
i the silent miracle sift down from heaven
knowing heaven
set not your face in grief against the wind
for i am raven, free in spirit
soaring highly without bound
i am legend reminding you of life
reminding you to live
she walks with a certain pride
moving slowly along the highway
each step a labor and leaning heavily
on a gnarled willow stick
she walks with a certain pride
her wispy hair flowing out
from under a fox-trimmed hood
that frames her sun-dark face
in the tedious tailwinds
of traffic rushing infinitely
her teak-brown gaze
unwavering
and destination-fixed
betrays no air of expectation
only the steady dark prints
of moosehide moccasins
and the rounded tracks
of her pack-laden Husky
trail out behind her
panting, the two plow unbroken drifts
their trail growing distant
in the lengthening of shadows
her old eyes bright in bitter winds that whisper
of a day when Raven stole away the Sun
of drumsongs. dancing.
and of legends passed down by elders
weaving baskets
over pine-scented campfires
as a cool December moon
outlines her smallness
she pauses to tug at the Husky’s harness
sighing frostily
and trudges on
the steady thrust of her
willow stick
piercing the snow
like the rhythm of an ancient drumbeat
she begins to chant a tuneless song
of burning sweetgrass.
sinew-threaded moccasins.
and great warriors
gone back to the earth
like old totems
returned as she
the circle of her life complete
will
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