“To be quiet, even wordless, in a good place is a better gift than poetry.”
Wendell Berry

Whew, Wendell too. My heart is still aching over Dolly. Yesterday my 3 year old granddaughter told me, “Dolly Parton died, but we can listen to her song and read her book; she had a coat made of colors.” That is all her parents doing… and my heart just melted. So, and now, to honor Wendell Berry (1934-2026) this week, we took a long walk outside, sat quiet with the trees and birds in the cemetery, checked out books from the library, and ate some tomatoes we grew in our own garden.

I haven’t found the words to write a poem for him yet, maybe because there are so many words. But I do know this; like a good book that makes you want to live out in the woods, Mr. Berry made me fall in love with poetry.

Here is my story—most of it comes from the second Substack I ever posted, so maybe 22 of you saw it; that’s how many subscribers I had then. So, if I may, I’ll share my selected thoughts from that article last summer and tell you just how important my fellow Kentuckian, Mr. Wendell Berry was to me.

July 8, 2025, I wrote:
“I am on a journey finding my voice in the world. Yes, even at 54 years old, I’m becoming who I am, again. I’d like to describe myself as a fierce activist (I am not), gentle therapist (maybe from my 34 years of pastoral ministry, but no formal degrees here), an amazed naturalist, full of wonder (mostly for trees, but plants work too), and quiet contemplative (maybe this describes me best).” (Interesting how back then, I described myself similar to Wendell Berry—trust me, I am certainly not.)

I continued:
"Today— I have nothing new to give. There are too many things happening in our world, and so many thoughts swirling in my head. I so badly want to say something relevant and original, but all I have to give is this little note in your inbox and a reliable poem.

…sometimes all I need is the comfort of a quiet moment. How about you? This poem by Wendell Berry taught me this. It is softly etched on my heart and every word holds so much significance for me. If you know me well, you’ve heard the story of my time at a friend’s farm and my daily walks committing the poem to memory last Fall. Last month I wrote a letter to Mr. Berry to let him know just how much I appreciated his work, but especially this poem with a copy of my inaugural “after”— Ode to The Great Heron Who Waits (originally published in The Way Back To Ourselves Fall Literary Journal, 2024), and today, I received a letter back! You would have thought I’d won the lottery and was opening my big fat check! I’ll share the precious handwritten note below, but first, maybe a little peace is what we need for right now…”

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

From the poetry collection Openings, 1968

I continued:
"The line, ‘and I feel the day-blind stars waiting with their light,’ is my most favorite of all! Its placement and its promise of beauty and presence (“grace of the world”) reminds me that it is always there, but I cannot always see or feel it. This brings great comfort in chaotic times—‘waiting with their light,’ waiting to be noticed; felt. Oh, does this ever remind me to take a moment, breathe and notice.

I’d love to hear what you feel after reading this poem or what words stand out to you most and why— send me a comment! But most of all, I pray you are sitting in the quiet somewhere looking out into the wild—

Breathing in:

I rest in the grace of the world

Breathing out:

and am free.”

The front page of my original letter to Wendell Berry—
Write that letter. Tell someone thank you. I’m so glad I did.

And here it is; his reply!! I love that he wished me well and that I was “not too busy”!He definitely knew who he was writing to—a recovering workaholic, in a season of learning to slow down and embrace the quiet. I quickly became a Wendell Berry student—and I am still and forever learning.

ODE TO THE GREAT HERON WHO WAITS / by Lisa M. Johnson
For God alone I patiently wait; He is the one who delivers me. Psalm 62:1
after “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry

I’d heard that the great heron feeds,
they who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.

I saw her standing at the still water’s edge,
the farmer gritting, naming her a nuisance.

But the heron, she knows who she is.
She flies and reigns over this water and wind.
For her patience is her plume, her gift, her inheritance. See?

She is silent, unless laughing.
She is present, faithfully.
She is still as a mannequin, posed as a model.
She is sleek, made slender and groomed.
Alert, but discreet.

Her secret?
She waits.

She waits with no fear.

She waits to live—she must.

She waits to love her young—her delight is clear.

She waits, and she sees,
that thing I love to hate:
to wait. It could be the most important thing.

Eliminate hurry, slow my pace.

Walk, not run.

Linger, not rush.

Slow to hear.

Slow to see—what could I see?

My ache is to perform, produce,
to be something other than me.

I see the great heron, I chase,
I find her each day I glance.
She reminds me yet again,
of every ounce of who she’s created to be.

She flies away slowly, neck and wings outstretched.
Full of peace, full of rest.

I slow into silence.

I slow into trust.

I slow to feel—to soar love.

I slow to wait.

Like the great heron who feeds,
who waits with ease,
she waits
and sees.

Since this poem, I have written a couple other “afters” for Mr. Berry or have quoted him in the epigraphs, and I am sure I will continue to be influenced by his profound work. Interestingly enough, I am in the middle of listening to one of his fiction works, “Jayber Crow” and it’s like hearing him tell the story of life, right where I live and come from; the narrator even pronouncing “Versailles” my hometown, “ver-SAYLZ” right and proper, like we do.

I leave you with two of my other favorite farmer, writer, poet, professor, conservationist-Wendell Berry sabbath poems:

There are so many more I love, especially his “Mad Farmer” variety, but today I want to remember him as now, this leaf lying brightly on the ground.

Thanks for being here with me—in the quiet,
Lisa

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Clayjar Review, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free below, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful or educational article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Subscribe now

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail, where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

ERE VIRIDITAS  /  lmj
a tanka triptych 
upon witnessing a monarch metamorphosis and learning viriditas is a Latin term meaning "greening" or "vitality," famously used by the 12th-century abbess, Hildegard of Bingen to describe the “greening power of God”.  It represents the creative, life-sustaining force inherent in nature that brings spiritual and physical health to both the soul and the body— representing a force for growth, renewal, and interconnectedness. 


Ere viriditas— 
the fresh, fragile heart sleeps. Winds
fade slowly—she beds 
wombed in lush, dark, verdant peace;
fed on milkweed’s honeyvine.

Long night despised, now 
surrendered to the beauty 
she patiently gains; 
marked by a life yet to be 
known—a secret quivering.

Fueled chrysalis; hung.
Transformation unfolds; bright.
Wings igniting; glow.
Sap flamed—made ready for my
gallant winter migration.  

“Every creature is a glittering, glistening mirror of divinity.” St. Hildegard of Bingen

This poem comes from my backyard obsession with the metamorphosis of the monarch butterfly and I am just now, maybe a little, realizing why. I think it answers the gift solitude produces: unknown and unexpected words that come from the silence and the dark or “the furnace” as Henri Nouwen would say. It represents the renewal or transforming wilderness journey I have quite unknowingly begun.
Here I go; sap flamed! Who will go with me?

“Life will still always insist on itself.”

This is the only way I continue to hope: in the midst of such terrible hearthache for our many neighbors right now and the chaos that unfolds each and every day, I look for these divine reminders.

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time—and today I offer nothing further to under-story this piece; let it be whatever it is for you.

As always, I’d love to hear from you. Tell me how this one hit in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

*the idea of “despising the chrysalis” came from in his interview with on her podcast, season 2, episode 8. I’m forever grateful; this idea finished the poem.

Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Share

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Clayjar Review, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful or educational article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail, where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

SWEET SLEEP OF THE UNKNOWN 
after “The Lady of Shalott” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
“Knowing isn't the most holy thing.” Kimberly Phinney 


How do we know without seeing clearly—
silo-ed reflections, our only view?

Reaching to touch imagery, through rippled mirages, 
woven by fear of our own hands.

Enchanted inside milky mirrors of dreams—
half sick of shadows unfulfilled, we slump into surrendered rest. 

And the unexpected, sweet sleep of the unknowns, falls us back—
splashing into the warm waters of peace, into the not-yets—

into the deep, not-fully-knowing depths of Love;
becoming our only certainty, made holy—starry clusters bright.

Read The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time—and today I offer nothing further to under-story this piece; let it be whatever it is for you.

But, as always, I’d love to hear from you. Tell me how this one hit in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Clayjar Review, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful or educational article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail, where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

“Knowing isn’t the most holy thing.”

Earlier this summer, I was given the amazingly humble opportunity to share a sliver of this poem, “Ode To Poetry” in an Ekphrastic Poetry workshop at the Cultivate Writer’s Retreat hosted by The Way Back To Ourselves writer’s community. This is a story about its origins and my own.

You should know, I did not, I repeat, I did not always love poetry. I, in fact, despised it in high-school. Anyone else? Let’s just dive right in, shall we?

I may have shared this before, but I have never found reading enjoyable or easy. Beginning in second or third grade, I was marked as a struggling reader. I attended those little enrichment groups, where we played word matching games and other activities, thinking I was special for getting to leave the regular class and “go play.” I did indeed like the attention. When I reached high-school, I didn’t know why, but I struggled to comprehend the materials we were assigned, so of course, I just worked extra hard; taking “in school” assignments home to work on in my bedroom without the chatter, the distractions, and the inevitable speed-reading student slamming their book shut when they out-read everyone else (you know the ones). I read passages twice and three times, likely more, repeated pages over and over to retain the details and spent hours taking notes and highlighting key phrases to help me understand—if I could just understand.

I especially remember those Shakespeare readings we would read as a class and then the teacher would immediately ask, “OK, so what’s it mean?” or “What’s happening in this scene?” I had no earthly idea. We jumped straight into meaning, explanation, understanding and I decided right then and there, none of this poetry business would ever be for me. I want to clarify, I had amazing teachers, but I was more talented at hiding my struggles—all of them, very well. And if I had to guess, I have had a mild to moderate case of undiagnosed dyslexia all this time.

Fast forward to 2023, when I first learned this new way of consuming all forms of art and especially poetry. I’m so thankful for that season 8 podcast series on The Being Known Podcast, with Dr. Curtis Thompson. You might want to check it out; it was pretty revolutionary for me (in a nutshell, it explores the theme "In the Path of Oncoming Beauty." The episodes intertwine neuroscience, human relationships, and spiritual narrative, looking at how encountering beauty aids in trauma healing, with artistic reflections tied to each episode topic) Sounds amazing, right? Most of all, it introduced me to the way that the brain experiences the world/beauty, including several poems, namely “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry—and this is where I began to learn how to experience poetry—and fell in love.

The poem I wrote over a year ago (many new revisions later) says it all:

Listen along here, if you like… I’ll read it to you:

ODE TO POETRY

No one I ever knew—
before now,
really loved you, Poetry. 
I am sorry.

Some of us, like me— 
never wanted to; never could. 

It’s just that 
you can be so maddening, 
my friend.
You are: What? Huh? 
and What do you mean? 
Come on and hurry this up!
You bring us to our knees
and these—
our immediate responses—
you invoke in us,
and we renounce you
once again. 

But what if you told us
your secret? 
Would you? 
What if we could flip
this whole script?
What if we came to you,
not to understand you first,
not to figure you out first,
but to more importantly—
feel something from you?
This could be the revolution—
the renaissance we need. 

Is this what you desire?
Could we shake your leathery hand,
feel your beating heart
beneath its skin,
see the curve of your warm smile,
and open up to look deep 
into your big, brown and weary eyes?
Now this would change everything. 

Could you mean for us 
to sense something, before;
before we ever try 
to make sense of something?
Because, yes, I’ve heard this; 
this is how we are made—
how we enter the world 
and remain.

Could I try to explain?
Let’s see—a newborn baby 
doesn’t understand,
know meaning, 
interpret the thoughts 
of themselves or others,
but—solely—feels,
in the beginning.
Yes, babies long, desire, hunger, 
hurt, laugh—emote.
They sense safety, comfort,
and they feel a connection—
it’s that attachment and attunement thing
that is so important, right?

To over simplify—right brain first. 
And right brain is the feeling part,
where life starts—where joy begins. 
Where security lives
or dies; where I found myself
when I first met you. 

And yes, we continue
to experience life this way, always;
right side, then left. 
Sense, then make sense. 
Am I getting this right?

Now, babies,
and by babies, I mean
our brains develop—
and we begin to use our logical,
thinking, left side
to create understanding, story, 
relevance and interpretation;
to make sense of things.
Oh, how we love this side of ourselves.

This order of the brain—I heard
it never goes away, never, they say; 
right then left. 
Sense, then make sense. 

EXCEPT—
as we grow, 
we try to hijack it all
the best we can—
skipping, bypassing the feeling part. 
Jumping immediately into that
What? Huh?
and What do you mean? 
Hurry this up!
Apologies, my friend. 

So my question is this:
what could you, Poetry,
or any art, and dare I say, 
the people in our lives
say to us, if we slowed down,
gave it time, 
and felt something from the start? 

For this is the point, 
I’ve now just begun to see—
the way I’ve found you work best:
to feel how you make me feel,
to feel your frustration, your anger,
your joy, and your delight.
To sit in the silence 
with your felt intention— 
to have an experience with your story; 
delight in your mood and your tone.

And then, maybe then—after—
we humans might cross over
to the other side of this road,
to kneel, to see something in you, 
or to understand 
a version of your meaning—
your poet’s intent; 
a story, a message to hear,
a cause to take up, 
or who you want me to be. 
We may even embrace the questions 
and be able to sit safely 
in the uncertainty you create. 

Or—we might not. 
And that is ok 
(placing my hand over my heart).

And then, we might 
love you, my dear Poetry,
my friend.

The freedom to not immediately understand, but enter into an experience or an emotional connection, made all the difference for me.

The funny thing is, embracing this process could apply to all art, other humans, experiences, and all of creation too. We love teaching this concept to the inmates at the local jail, here in Kentucky, the first or second week of classes. I encourage you to try it; to pick any poem—the Wendell Berry one, “The Peace of Wild Things” is a great one to use. Then you will know why I love poetry—now.

During the session at Cultivate, and I shared this concept of “lingering longer” and defined Ekphrastic poetry this way. Ekphrasis has indeed evolved in the writing world to become more than looking at a piece of artwork and “describing in full.” Though it began in the 18th century, when reproductions of famous pieces of artwork were not readily available, and the general public relied upon written descriptions to help convey the art, it has grown to be so much more. Ekphrastic poetry truly deepens our engagement with art by translating visual experience into words, often highlighting the spiritual or emotional aspects. Giving space to slow down, feel something, and truly see is now a beautiful and enjoyable way to experience a work of art, not merely describe or explain it.

Through a fun exercise with a black and white image of the moon, we helped the writers move through different levels of perception to create conditions for new art (in this case, a poem) to germinate by first feeding these emotional roots that lie just underneath the surface of what we merely see at first glance (a technique used in the Poetry 101 w/The Way Back to Ourselves Writing Course). By “taking another look,” waiting a few more moments to feel something, asking questions and allowing the image to ask questions back, we reach a new level, activating underused language pathways in our minds.

“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” Leonardo da Vinci

After looking in depth at an Ekphrastic poem by Ann Sexton, “The Starry Night,” 1962, (click the link; you won’t regret reading this one for a great example) we encouraged our students to walk around the art gallery, where we were blessed to hold this workshop. They were instructed to pick a child’s portrait from the current exhibit, In the land of “Wooden Shoes” (a Holocaust remembrance). We asked them to not immediately read the description hanging beside the portrait, as to not hurry to the meaning and the descriptive story, but to rather sit, linger, feel, look again, note what came up inside of them, then breathe and listen some more.

We described this approach like God—who in the “chaos to order” of creation, simply came to it. God did not go to war with it, but hovered; God hovered… and then God began to create.

Lastly, we told them that if they only ended up writing one word, one phrase or one true sentence, to quote Hemingway—that would be enough. The students shared after we returned from our time with the portraits and their insights and writings were nothing short of awe-inspiring! Heather and I are so grateful to have been a part of this experience with these talented writers who were willing to go on this journey with us: , , , Don Rutherford, Kim D. Butler, , and others!

And that is enough for now. I’d love to hear…

What are you working on in the quiet?

And I really would like to know where you are lingering longer and taking another look? Where might you be taking it slow today?

I’m working on: a few new poems—one, a new Ekphrastic of Giotto’s Sermon to the Birds (c. 1297–1299), subject St. Francis of Assisi. Also, a new poem called “I Wanna Be” about all the versions of me.

I’m lingering longer here: in my sheets till 11 am this (Sat.) morning, in the inner peace that comes from knowing birdsong outside my window, and my quiet pup right beside me; also feeling the extreme privilege to do so. Also, I’m lingering and trying to slow my pace (task-master me) with my poetry collection; allowing the pieces to come and go and allowing room for the ones I have not written yet. And, we have a new grandbaby on the way; October-something will be her birthday! After a very difficult miscarriage last year, for my daughter, we are allowing the grief and the joy to co-mingle.

Your turn… would you leave me a comment?

I leave you with one last favorite quote:

Dallas Willard answering John Ortberg’s question: “What must I do to become the me I want to be? Willard simply says, “Hurry is the great enemy of the spiritual life in our day. You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.” Ortberg replies, “OK, now, what else?” And Willard says, “That’s it; there is nothing else.”

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time. I’d love to hear from you; tell me how this one hit in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

This post is public so feel free to share it.

Share

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Clayjar Review, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful or educational article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

Now comes the mist; 
the morning wakes with a guest.
Do you ever wonder how it comes—
slow, gentle, quiet; 
leaving you wondering
if it has even begun
or when it has ceased?

As if inviting itself in, 
but not until it has asked—
begging our pardon first,
then slowly slips away.

Safely, I oblige the foggy drizzle; 
the porch keeping me dry. 
Safely, I watch the comforter arrive.

The robins and cardinals come to take their sips.
The roots allowed a drink.
The summer petals now kissed fresh. 

I saw a woman in the mist; safe,
in the woods, wild—loved, lovable, 
drinking it in. 


lmj

Today’s hallowed poetry offering comes from practicing the Mary Oliver way; rise early, take a notebook outside and pay attention. This is not a polished poem yet; it’s just a beginning, but I’d like to mark its origin here, in this safe space with you.

Watching the documentary of America’s best-selling poet, and Pulitzer Prize winner yesterday left me with a clear lump in the throat. I highly recommend it, if it comes to your city or when it arrives on PBS this Fall.

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time. I’d love to hear from you; tell me how this one hit in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

UNKNOWN PENUMBRA; Love's Posture 
a tanka triptych upon learning penumbra is the partially shaded outer region of a shadow; blurred or transitional zone

I used to think in
black and white, void of nuance,
neat, simple boxes;                                     
used sacred verse to make them.
But—aren’t we brilliant facets?

To separate by
rigid all or nothings, we
only become closed—
small. Governed by scarcity, 
we limit—voiding Love’s posture.

Gray is now the rich,
complex, delightful color—
canvas of twilight
and dawn, dappled of contrasts, 
soft lines—unknown penumbra.

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time. I’d love to hear from you; tell me how this one hit in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

Oh, one last question: if you’ve read “The Correspondent” by Virginia Evans, you’ll recognize it right away, but I’d love to hear what you are currently reading?? Tell me in the comments, please. I’m still reading “An Ocean Without,” a poetry collection by , “Communion” by bell hooks and also “Whistler” by Ann Patchett. Have you read these? Let me know!

Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Share

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

My Dearest Lisa,

If you are reading this note, you have found the vessel that I have been saving just for you. Uniquely sculptured and tinted a slight turquoise blue, sent out from beyond the sea, I, like an antiquarian of rare and matchless items, have treasured each and every drop of what lies within. This is my gift—and I have fashioned one for each of your three daughters as well; I know they mean everything to you…

Click here to read the rest of the letter (page 161) and find out what’s contained inside my bottle.
I also share a simple Ode with you today, along the same theme…

ODE TO MY TEARS 
by Lisa M. Johnson 

You well first 
into my tightened chest.
Travel into the nose—
red flared.

Blink, blink you back—
tempted to apologize for you, 
I let you come
or rather, surrender

to your beautiful gifts.
Tumbling yourself out—
little exhaled prayers 
to set us free.

Let them come and let them heal, my friends. Men, and women and children, the science is overwhelming and the sacredness of our tears is eternal. More about that in my letter… check it out at or HERE—>Message In A Bottle Literary Journal, Summer, 2026.

If you’re intrigued, join me in this practice: I’ve adopted this prayer… it is to ask for “one good cry a day.” I know, absurd!

Thank you, dear reader-friends for being here! I’m so grateful you find this work worthy of your precious time. I’d love to hear your stories about your own tears. Tell me in the comments and let’s keep writing and reading together, in the quiet.

~Lisa

Oh, one last question: if you’ve read “The Correspondent” by Virginia Evans, you’ll recognize it right away, but I’d love to hear what you are currently reading. Tell me in the comments, please. I’ve just begun “Communion” by bell hooks and loving it so far!

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

I used to think growth
moved along linear steps—
time rung on ladders.
Yet, we’re still sliding downward
into darkness. But—what if—

time’s more like labor?
Rhythmic powerful surges—
expansions then tight
contractions. Could this be our
soft, ripe turn birthing love wide?

PRAYER
a tanka

I use to think prayer
meant loud words—howling wishes.
Now, it’s more silent.
Raw and present breaths from my
soul—in the ordinary.

PENUMBRA
a tanka triptych
Upon learning: penumbra is the partially shaded outer region of a shadow; blurred or transitional zone

Gray is now the rich,
complex, beautiful color—
canvas of twilight.
Dappled of contrasts, full of
soft lines—unknown penumbra.

I used to think in
black and white—void of nuance—
small, simple boxes.
But are humans not complex?
Using scripture to exclude—

separate by the
rigid all or nothings, we
only become closed,
smaller. Driven by fear, we
control, voiding Love’s posture.

All are welcome, here, at this table—and as always, thanks for being present for a few moments in the quiet together,
Lisa

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

Subscribe now

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

Today I was inspired by to share a poem that explores my own personal journey with chronic illness, aging, anxiety, and the paralysis of indecision. Unlike Eliot’s poem, which this work is a response to, I discovered through this writing process (a “stream of consciousness” exercise for me), the questions that haunt me have also led me to an expanding lens; one of embracing myself, the world and my dreams once again.

For her “counselor, poetry professor, fellow-sojourner perspective,” plus tools, hope and resources, see Kimberly’s recent Substack article, “This Post Is About My Depression”, which resonated so much with my own journey and healing; she says it all so very well. Isn’t it a delight when we realize we have had fellow sojourners, similar guides, and witnesses we didn’t know of—until we do?!

I am so grateful to daily meet myself again; I hope you find resonance here and feel something in this quiet reading moment together as I answer my grand conundrum: I am bound; a slave to aging and the tiny pills that daily haunt me, but at the same time, help me realize the gift in that they keep me alive. Aging has only made me able to dream again—become wise and grateful, even in my increasingly frail body of questions and uncertainty.

—If you’d like to hear the poem in my voice, listen →

I’m glad you’re here.

TO MEET MYSELF AGAIN 
- after “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot


Come, join me here along the covered steps.
Would you sit near me in this rocking chair?
Let us watch the world move slowly by—
the sun now setting through tired branches, 
waiting for a summer storm, come rolling nigh.

I have measured out my life in tiny pills— 
little green, round ones that go down easy in the dark.
How should I begin? How do I embrace this fate— 
a chisel, carving the deep groove between my eyes?
It is the ritual that’s been tilling and plowing 
stories of my failure to savor the present moments, 
when I was swallowing life all too seriously.
Or—was it swallowing me?

Every morning, I take my remedy 
to this world's demise so faithfully. 
Wait an hour—then eat.

You can ask me when, but I am not sure 
when I began to crack the window 
to dream about my future again. 
Maybe it was slowly that desire returned—
each day proving I could, 
that I would, 
rise.

If a dream is something you roughly wake from— 
heart hammering like a caught bird against its cage,
how do you cradle an egg throughout the day?
You could walk ‘round sleeping—
be haunted by the time you’re wasting, 
an old woman rocking back and forth, back and forth. 

I grow old, I grow old. 

And, do I dare—do I dare
embrace this new self; not new, but aged,
who feels a mind of distilled clarity, like a fresh wind? 
I am only certain of today
and—how lovely it is to meet myself again—
and to wonder if I might like her this time.

Why would I deserve this gift, and how could it be?
To grow into a wisdom tree—layered bent, not broken,
saged lines of woven tapestry.
Weakened, I’m as uncertain as my tired frailty,
though my resilience proves immeasurable; 
energized with morning’s fresh hope— 
and do I dare say, happily ever after?

*this generative poem came from my time in Poetry 201 with The Way Back to Ourselves. Check them out if you’re interested in growing your writing life in a place of belonging and care.

Share

As always, thanks for being here for a few moments in the quiet together,
Lisa

If you’re new here, and made it this far—WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

~

Per my usual PS: I am attaching the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the local jail where Amy Buchanan and I teach poetry classes. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

“Physical Copy” is a limited and unique, hand-sewn journal—there are no digital copies, only paper that you can hold in your hands, dog-ear the pieces you love and pass around to friends.

“Encore”—a whimsical, previously “unchosen” poem, is a nod to the season I wrote it in (Autumn at a friend’s farm, where my husband and I lived while other friends used our home to relocate to the area). Though it is not aligned with our current season, it is reminding me to not neglect putting myself in the path of beauty in these our current days; it’s honestly the only way I’m surviving. It is so easy to lose heart, to despair, and sink into a dark pit over the pain in the world today.

Would love to hear what is saving you from the pit…

So, here’s to taking a small break and walking outside and seeing the butterflies dance and perform for us! Here’s to Ella and her kind labor-of-love! Here’s to beauty and here’s to celebrating whimsy and how I was feeling about the change, not only in weather, but inside of me during my stay at the farm. It’s an enormous privilege to do so. Sidenote: the poem is also a nod to my days as a dancer/performer in my much, much—much younger years. Enjoy!

ENCORE / by Lisa M. Johnson 


Come to the woods 
and sit with me
amid the understory, 
among creation’s hall of trees.

Sunlight dappled, 
wings dressed snow white,
little angel butterflies flit 
and flutter in nature’s last delight.

Dancing and feeding low, 
tiny voices sing, come join in the feast;
it will be a King’s celebration 
of the valley's lush and final serenade.

Elegantly kissing each seed in flamed farewell,
flyers land atop tiny golden crowned heads. 
One by one, they are chosen—
   this one
        that one
                this one
                      that one,

filled with affection, twirled in play,
detonating little bombs upon late autumn’s 
seed pod tops as 

the 
final 
act 
cascades.

Beyond the majestic summit, 
evening sun now sinks,
with grand explosion, curtain closing.
All at rest, bowed low and dried up—

maidens made ready 
for winter’s repose. 
Now, encore, encore! 
Split open—and release!

*originally published in “Physical Copy” Volume 1

PS: please pray we get approval from the jail to allow the inmates to share (if they choose) their poetry with the world. I have a call with the Commander this week about the release form and discussions about any liability. If this is your area of expertise, please shoot me some pointers.

PPS: I’ll continue to attach the Wish List for book donations to support our Library for the inmates at the jail… we are almost out of books for this Spring session. We hope to replenish our shelves for the new students that take Poetry in the Fall. Thank you for your invested part—we take you with us each and every week. Wish List!

As always, thanks for being here for a few moments in the quiet together,
Lisa

If you’re new here, WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

So glad you’re here with me—in the quiet,

Lisa

If you’re new here, WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned “Lolly,” an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix, Physical Copy and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free above, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist chat” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

If you’re new here, WELCOME! I’m Lisa Johnson, retired pastor’s wife of 34 years, turned "Lolly," an Italian grandmother, mentor and poet. I teach poetry at my local jail and love writing in the quiet of my garden in the heart of the Bluegrass of Kentucky. I’ve recently published works in: Publish Her Press Anthology, The Way Back To Ourselves, Vessels of Light, Radix and Calla Press Literary Journals and am working on a new collection of poems of my own.

I warmly invite you to subscribe for free below, so that once a week (or so), you’ll receive a special poem, thoughtful article or a guest “artist feature” straight to your email inbox. Thank you for sharing life with me and supporting my work of sharing hope and honest reflections from my heart, through poetry!

In honor of Mother’s day, today I share two small poems written for both my mothers and another I deeply cherish from a favorite Kentucky poet, Judy Young. I’ve also been thinking a lot about how God shows up in my world and scripture in distinctly maternal ways and will share just a few of those below.

I also realize this may be a tender weekend and your soul may feel a little raw for many reasons. Wherever you find yourself today, I wish you much love, laughter, good music and a good cry; but mostly I wish you a knowing that you are clothed with resilient beauty.

“When those two lines appear on the test, they add up to more than just an addition to the family. In that moment, |+| becomes more than a symbol—it becomes a new life, a new identity.
Moms-to-be begin to check for signs of spotting with each visit to the bathroom. They force down prenatal horse pills and count every flutter and kick. Their lives begin to revolve around the effort to create a life that is happy and healthy for the baby within. In short, their wombs become cultivators of compassion.
And God is no stranger to this kind of compassion.”
Elizabeth Berget

This first poem comes from my “I used to think” collection, about my own mother. Opposed to what I used to think, God doesn’t stand distant from our humanity, but like a mother, draws near to us in it—in our ordinary and mundane work, in our pain and suffering and also in our laughter.

IN THIS LAUGH / by Lisa Johnson 
a tanka diptych


I used to think that   
my laugh cackled loud, like Mom’s  
exploding—and I’d bristle. 
Now, with weighty loads lifted,
aged caressed, loved; I laugh free.

Recalling hers clear, 
upon further reflection, 
I can’t remember. 
All I know—here—in this laugh, 
beneath her wing, found—pressed near. 

RESILIENT BEAUTY / by Lisa M. Johnson 
a tanka/haiku diptych, in gift for my step mother’s favorite variety of Allamanda— red and white, aptly named, "Cherries Jubilee". (Also, a little re-write from her birthday last year)
~upon learning: for her 1897 Diamond Jubilee, Chef Auguste Escoffier created the sweet and sour dessert, "Cherries Jubilee" as a treat for Queen Victoria, who loved cherries. 

Cherries Jubilee;
seed of hope in sour’s pit,
sweet gift for my Queen. 
Season of rest now blooming, 
soft reminders—you are seen. 

Sugars melt, petals 
ignite—in honor of your 
resilient beauty. 

And finally, Judy Young’s poem: The resonance here is so rich and personal for me; not because we starched in washtubs and wringers, but because of all the ordinary things we did do (me and my moms), while I danced underneath aprons, grew to plant trees, hold my own beautiful babies, experience heartache and endure unseen labor.

MUSIC / by Judy Young 

Starch splatters my mother's arms
as she glides a shirt through the wringer.
Her fingers glisten and the music 
in the starch darkens her sleeves.
I dance under the dripping lines, 
keeping time in the dark
of my closed eyes.  I listen and move, 
listen and move as the clothes 
call me toward them.  My mouth 
leaves little half-moons where I kiss
the hems, my fingers make circles
on the waist of a dress. 
I hug my arms across my chest and sway
back and forth to sooth an imaginary baby. 

Upstairs at night my mother dreams, one hand 
drawn into a fist. She is inventing 
my life, the trees I will plant
outside the bathroom window, ruffles
with burns where the iron was too hot, 
curtains that test the air as if they were wings
being tried for the first time. 
She frets, "Heartaches," but feels the ache
low in the body.  My unborn children turn 
as she dreams of washtubs, the wringer waiting
while she carefully lifts her fingers 
along the flute of a sleeve. 

In the second century, Clement of Alexandria mixed his metaphors in his description of Christians nursing at the breast of God the Father. Medieval mystic Meister Eckhart described God’s activity: “What does God do all day long? God gives birth. From all eternity God lies on a maternity bed giving birth.”

“Mother’s Day is as appropriate as any occasion to recapture the biblical maternal images (metaphors) for God to help us see further truths. People described God in feminine terms, not because God is actually a woman, but because feminine or maternal traits say something true about God and about their experience with God. The same must be said of masculine and paternal images for God. We must not confuse either of these metaphors with God’s reality.”— the Junia Project

I love thinking about this… hope you do too or maybe just a little—Happy Mother’s Day!!

Again, thank you, dear readers, for sharing my life and a love or curiosity for old and new ideas through poetry! I continue to work on my forthcoming collection of poems and if you are missing me around here, please know, I’m just busy typing, typing, typing, reading, and writing.

Glad you’re here,

Lisa

If you’d like to listen along, I’ll read it to you…

Inscape / by Lisa Johnson 

Like the flesh of an avocado
touched by the air,
how fragile belonging is. 

Of many metaphors, 
don’t look too close—
I am reacting in the wind, 
a book with many covers,
an impressionistic piece of art. 

You may flip through my pages,
you may spoon out my pulp,
but I am best savored
sitting in the artist's garden, 
swinging in a swing from a tree. 

Hot tea, green, warm cupped in hands,
stories, bloomed and rooted;
yours, then mine I’ll see. 
The beauty and terror    both
in swaths of rough and smooth,
pigment brushed gold and shadows
of broken color, raised upon heart    and face. 

We’ll share questions more than answers, 
contently resting in the unknown s,
looking for the Light fleeting in backgrounds,
together. Then, more Light up close. 
Like the flesh of an avocado
touched by the air,
how fragile belonging is. 

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I’m taking a new writing course through at The Way Back To Ourselves called The Poetry Hour Cohort 201, with a focus in growing and refining my work, preparing it for an official poetry collection/book. Yay! Let me tell you, this is so scary and so exciting, but I feel the timing is divine.

This poem came from an exercise on discovering our own poetry “inscape”. It’s what I imagine and/or hope to be, but I’d love to know if this comes through my writings from your perspective, as a reader here. Let me know your thoughts; all are kindly welcomed as I grow and refine my work.

PS: As preparation for the class, we were encouraged to collect all potential “collection” poems into a folder. I was hoping I’d have at least 50, but ended up with almost 100. It will be hard cutting my darlings down to 50 or so, but it gives me hope that the needed ones are there ready to be distilled and included. I’ll keep you updated on the process! BTW: if you’re looking for creative support or have a dream, I highly recommend TWBTO, 10/10!

As always, thanks for reading as I write and process, then re-write some more. You, coming along for the journey, is one of the highest honors I have!

in the quiet, so glad you’re here,

Lisa

Lisa: What inspired you to write this piece?

Rosa: When the ICE raids and detentions started happening, I read a news article about an American family getting detained simply for speaking to their family at the grocery store, no questions asked. This event really triggered some fears in me, as a Spanish speaking immigrant, also trying to teach my bilingual child Spanish. A place like the grocery store is actually the perfect environment in which you should speak a second language to your children, because of the many opportunities it provides for learning new words, terms, and concepts. I already had a certain level of embarrassment when people would stare when they heard me speaking a different language, but reading this took embarrassment to fear. I wrote this poem in response to those feelings, and as a way to remind myself that my language is a gift I get to pass on to my children, no matter what anyone has to say about it.

Lisa: How do you feel about it now that it’s in print and out in the world when you read it back now?

Rosa: It certainly was nerve-racking, knowing it was out in the world, not knowing how people would interpret it or receive it. It’s a loaded political topic, and my intention with my collection was never to be political, or appeal only to a certain political camp. This poem caught me, as the writer, by surprise. In reading that headline, I experienced my fears bubble up— the fears I’ve faced as an immigrant trying my best to raise a bilingual child. Ultimately, I felt the need to voice and resolve those fears in this piece, trusting it would resonate with many who may have felt the same. I truly believe bilingualism is a practice in the preservation of beauty and culture, and doesn’t need to be political.

Lisa: Is there anything you’d change about it?

Rosa: Actually, the original version of this poem had translations for each of the Spanish words included. The editor at American Magazine, who accepted it for publication, asked if he could take the translations out for emphasis. I think his editorial insight made the poem better, and I love how it stands now!

Lisa: Has there been any response to it from your readers?

Rosa: I’ve been surprised at the response to a lot of my immigration poems. I didn’t know how/if my readers would relate, especially the majority that has never immigrated, but I’ve been so happy at how these poems seem to shed a light on this experience, and people’s willingness to learn more about it. It continues to blow me away how many of us feel homeless or homesick even in our own countries.

At the end of the day, wherever you land, I think the immigrant experience is one that parallels our pilgrimage as Christians. Taking the time to listen and understand these stories, or any story that isn’t exactly like yours, will only expand your understanding of the human experience and God’s goodness and beauty woven through it all.

Lisa: I really appreciated the authentic story you threaded and the accessible bilingual language you used throughout the entire collection; also, the stories that resonated and the ones that taught me something new, culturally. My favorite element that ran throughout, was that each piece seemed to hit me with a punch in the middle or end and I loved the surprise twist or the volta and the metaphor-exposing moments so very much! In this piece it was “… and I spit out my chewed-up Spanish alphabet onto the plate.” You’ve also definitely inspired me to begin to create my own collection. Thanks for going first, friend!

Rosa: Thank you so much for taking the time to sit and dwell on my words and to try to immerse yourself in a world/culture that is new to you. To think I could have opened you up to my culture is such an honor and exciting thing to hear!!!

What an honor to have as a special guest poet today!
Thank you, Rosa for curing our longings by enlarging our definition of home.

If her work resonated with you, we’d both love to hear from you! And don’t forget to get your copy of Rosa’s complete collection today; it’s gorgeous! I’ll be picking up an extra copy or two at the Cultivate Writer’s Retreat in June to replace the one I’ve given out at the jail already! What a joy to see your words and hope go out and meet beautiful people, wherever they are in the world.

As always, thanks for being here for a few moments in the quiet together,
Lisa

No Misunderstanding / by Lisa M. Johnson 
after-
"The love that’s poured in silence at old graves
Renewing flowers, tending the bare earth,
Is never lost. In him all love is found
And sown with him, a seed in the rich ground."
Malcolm Guite 



he is the gardener—
tender of our souls,
cultivator of soft petals, 
vine-dresser of ripe fruit,
and farmer sprouting forth in viriditas,
greening the earth,
rising from a seed in the rich ground. 
An uncomfortable reversal, 
a refusal of an empire’s aim to submerge.
Innocent seed of love and peace— of the woman.
Power fertile a tomb cannot hold,
shoot rising up for the oppressed,
seedling emerging for the women waiting, 
weeping, watering the soil. 
Every tear nourishing, whispering;
Resurrection is resistance. 

Thanks for being here in the quiet. I’m so glad you’re here,

Lisa

Subscribe now

“A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” Robert Frost

This one, I hope is a gift to all, but it especially goes out to the writer’s in the room today. It’s a pairing of my Lenten observations for the day with a writer’s blessing I decided to finish in honor of World Poetry Day.

The blessing began as an exercise at a writer’s retreat last Fall. I’ve been thinking about it again though, for the past two weeks, as we’ve just begun our Spring Poetry classes at the jail. In week one we cover some foundations like— What is Poetry? What is Poetic License? and— You have a Voice.

I can’t wait for you to read it, but first, day 32 of Lent and my backyard observations:

No. 32
for world poetry day / i wrote / or actually finished / a poem / a blessing / over myself / and over you / if you are a writer / a storyteller / a bringer of good news to the poor / a nurse to the sick / a mother hen who holds all the children / close to her breast / like a compline prayer in the night / for those who weep / those who work / and those who joy / in wonder of beauty / in hope / who also feel the horror / who also watch the birds play / or fight / I cannot tell / as i am watching them now / as i type / two robins / in need of a hug / then i glance over / to drink in the lenten roses / and the cardinal in the tree / singing to this world / so long / farewell / as the sun sets / bidding this day adieu

My Writer’s Blessing 
(a declaration over myself & over you) 

Yes, it is exactly what I wanted! 
Or rather, needed. 
These slippers in their velvet package.
The right size, style and color.
This gift box of writing words.
This gift bag of creating worlds. 

Healing my wounds.
Seeing your beauty. 
Witnessing all, our pains.

My heart is thankful 
for this lump in my throat, 
for this daily box of chocolates, 
this bag o’ nuts.
Ready to be opened. 
Taken by the handful,
delighted in—
the crunch, the sweet, the swallow. 

The gulp in benevolent release, 
of everyone and everything. 
Every voice in my head.
Every message that restrains or
edits me from opening it up and seeing 
the value of my words,
the worthiness of my thoughts,
the validity of my ideas, 
the voice I have been given,
the story I have to tell,
that only I can tell.
The feast I’ll allow to simmer, 
open wide and grow. 

Pause.

For one or one million, I'll write. 
For one or one million, I'll remain in your love and in your care. 
For one or one million, I'll give thanksgiving. 
Writing all the days I have left of my life. 

I’d love to tell you, you have a voice too and are made to create something beautiful in this world. You don’t have to be a writer.

And— I’d love to hear what you are creating or observing in your world; tell me something beautiful from the backyard, something scary out there or an unanswerable question you have. I’d love to hear from you!

I’m glad you’re here, in the quiet,
with me, Lisa

Subscribe now

Bare Branches 
by Lisa M. Johnson 

1.
I used to think Maple trees 
were all the same. 
I stare up into bare branches,
leaf buds on two—
none on the third. 
It is fully spring, but I feel a death 
coming on the inside of my softened belly. 
I hold it firm asking for a sign. 
Pleading for an answer. 

These trees could shade a whole garden, 
I say into the wind last year. 
And so, they birth me; a destroyer, 
a maker and a gardener. 
They’ve actually been here all along—
three Maples growing, 
watching, standing guard.
Not just for the birds, 
squirrels and each other, 
but for me. 
Covering, hemming our family in 
for all the years—
all the raising girls years, 
climbing, swinging, picnicking years. 
In all the fighting for health, peace
and wrestling for rest years. 
They gave. 

2. 
They also took from us. 
I remember the killing of every blade 
of thirsty, brown grass years—
our playground blanket gone. 
The gnarled roots growing, 
invading unwelcome spaces years. 

Does one thing always have to end 
to make way for a new beginning?

I surrender. I let it all go– 
let it all end and destroy the dead yard
with a shovel. 
Memories and insides of me
are dug up with the soil, 
the dead parts now cast aside.
Mourning some losses, holding them, 
but 
ignoring, reburying others. 
And I plant
a shade garden under the trees. 
I give them the whole place. 

3.
I pour fresh dirt.
I pour salted, summer burning sweat.
I pour water.
I pour daylight into dark.
I sow fruit, seeds and sap.
One hundred plants, 
planted as an artist,
her masterpiece. 
Lovers of a Maple’s shade. 
Lovers of returning—
spring, summer, fall. 
Coral bells, hostas, astilbe, and hellebores—
taking turns to show their soft fruit. 
And I am both nearly and utterly 
exhausted 
feeding this beautiful 
hungry monster 
I have made. 

When winter comes—
all turn in for a rest, 
‘til soon the first hints
of spring arrive 
with anticipation more swollen 
than Christmas 
flowing through my veins. 

4.
Three Maples.
Leaf buds on two, none on the third.
A third of the new garden will soon die 
from the Summer sun’s heat 
pouring through these naked, 
dead branches, I cry. 
I am scorched. 
I discover the evidence of winter sapsuckers
who secretly came to take their fill—
holes strategically bored, 
encircled around its lonely trunk. 
I am gutted. 
My tender shoots— 
my new tender longings seem soon lost. 

I stare up into bare branches. 
The wise Gardener says, Give it time. 
This is a Sugar, 
the others are Reds. 
Oh, I say. 
Give it time. She may have had 
a stressed winter—
a season of invaders or thirst. 
Yes, or a season of drought; great loss 
has visited us before
in all the faith building years. 
Give it time. 
Fruit does not always bloom 
when we want it to. 

And now, indeed, 
just on the tippy cusp of summer— 
a Sugar bud finally appears, 
like the tiny miracle it is. 
Then another, then another. 
I try to count them— keep up,
marking each burst. 
And she indeed comes into her full leafed glory. 
Her full shade glory coming to cover
my new plantings—
my new beginnings, after all. 
Just in time to meet my doubt, my fears with hope.
And I relax, again. 
And I surrender, again.  
And I give over the whole place, again. 

Maybe we are the trees— we who need rest. 
We who cannot always be in bloom.

Maybe I am the Sugar— I, who need a little more time to rest.
I, who cannot always be in bloom.

I’d love to know if this poem resonates with you in any way. And— it’s all true. I, indeed had the kind Arborist out here early in Spring, looking at my maple that wasn’t blooming yet like the others a few years ago— in great fear and doubt. I was also embarrassed to admit to him that I had lived with these three trees for the past 22 years and never noticed or cared about their bud-timing before. I also had no idea that they were different varieties of Maple. But here I was.

And he was truly like the good Gardener looking at me that day, full of patience and kindness, calming my every doubt. And about three or four weeks later, I knew, he was right— the bare Sugar began to bud.

I’m realizing so much in this poem about myself, but also about judging someone else’s fruit. Maybe we should slow to judge and begin to recognize first that we may not be aware of someone’s season of drought they just went through, or season of flood, pest or disease. Maybe the roots we can’t see were severed by a wound and time is needed to rest, heal and to bear fruit again.
Let us be patient, kind and loving with one another.

Much grace and a little extra time to rest to you as well, friends.

Thanks for being here in the quiet.

I’m so glad you’re here,
Lisa

Share

Mary Oliver, the great, late modern poet is adored for saying many things, one of which is contained in her poem, Sometimes— “Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”

The good news or gospel of paying attention is housed in my own attempt to slow my speeding past all the things we speed past— things like sadness, inconvenient people, long lines, death, pictures of war on screens and even all the ordinary and amazing beauty that still persists in our world. Believe me, I am also with anyone thinking that this Lenten season of wearing ashes has lasted just about long enough; and it’s only half over!

How quickly we rush home to scrub our foreheads and remove any traces of dust fallen upon our noses, to expedite the whole season. So, in an effort to embrace the slow and fast the hurry, I continue to mark each day of Lent with observations that I’ve been sharing daily on my instagram and in substack notes. Today is no different, except today’s list of observations is a treat— another stream of consciousness listing of my personal process of regular and becoming rhythmic “paying attention”. It also became a revelatory picture of how my day is a poem— an experience of words that don’t always make their meaning known, but are indeed making me. May it encourage you and I’d love to know what we have in common! Tell me, tell me how you pay attention and what astonishes you; I’d love to know.

Also, they are getting longer— have you noticed? Each day is a healthy and growing dose of beauty and horror. I want to slow to embrace, see, witness and mark all this full life has to offer!

No. 18

where do I find these / observations / you ask / hmmmm / well / I open the window / sit under the sun / under a tree / and I listen / read books / read verses / underlining all the way / I listen to holy words / listen to people / more than I talk / still working on that one / I read poetry / drink decaf coffee / with caramel creamer, please / I try to pay attention / but I mostly play with a 2 year old / steep some tea / read the news / try to verify credible sources / dig in dirt / I stoop low / pull weeds / prune branches / look up to the heavens / with curiosity / more than certainty / make food / sit with a friend / weep with those who weep / joy with those who joy / I love / like a fool / visit prisoners / see Jesus / in every single one of their faces / I clean to music from the 80’s / I set alerts to pause / to the tune of tower bells / take long baths / with epsom salt / I struggle / I make mistakes / I try to be open / I fail / I love again / I respect and listen / to my body more than yesterday / I lie awake at night / and try to fall asleep / and listen to the night / I write / I tell about it / and that thing I’m realizing / the more I pay attention / the more I pay attention

This season has opened up space for me, for lament and for sadness, like the Psalms— that great book of poetry in song and prayer for those living in exile. It’s opened like a virtual temple, made for slow reflection and noticing what’s going on in the inside and the outside of my world. I’m taking notice of ordinary and beautiful created things, full of magic, awe, wonder— little breathing alleluias as Mary O. would say and placing them alongside every thorn, piece of rust, root rot and fallen, tattered feather.

It’s a place to celebrate and mourn this one wild and precious life. Just this morning, I noticed the old maple tree out front is full of grand and glorious little buds, while it continues to strangle itself at the trunk— with its own roots. It makes me full of hope and full of sadness.

I leave you with one of my favorite passages from Thomas Merton’s book, Bread in the Wilderness, pg. 53—

“The psalms are poems, and poems have a meaning— although the poet has no obligation to make his meaning immediately clear to anyone who does not want to make an effort to discover it. But to say that poems have meaning is not to say that they must necessarily convey practical information or an explicit message. In poetry, words are charged with meaning in a far different way than are words in a piece of scientific prose. The words of a poem are not merely the signs of concepts: they are also rich in affective and spiritual associations. The poet uses words not merely to make declarations, statements of fact. That is usually the last thing that concerns him (her). He seeks above all tho put words together in such a way that they exercise a mysterious and vital reactivity among themselves, and so release their secret content of associations to produce in the reader an experience that enriches the depths of his spirit in a manner quite unique. A good poem induces an experience that could not be produced by any other combination of words… What a poem actually “means” can only be summed up in the whole content of poetic experience, which it is what the poet is trying to communicate to the rest of the world.”

So, I’m thinking our ordinary days are poems, indeed— an enriched experience.

As always, thanks for being here in the quiet with me, with each other and with the great poets, writers and priests whose words create experiences for us to all live in, still.

I’m glad you’re here,
Lisa

But first, my observations, a list poem of beauty, terror, questions, and hope for our ashes— tis the season of bright sadness:

#11 Oh, the candle is for me
by lisa m. johnson

the day is done / the night has come / holding sorrow / so I sigh it out / welcoming this bright sadness / the hard and the holy / oh, the candle is for me / that I might not become blind / even the tulip and daylily leaves / feel the soil shake in its nervousness / anxious that it’s too soon / but they still rise to play / one day everyone will have always been / against this / the children are all ours / who takes their breath as a distraction / who / as they giggle and frolic across the street / at their desks / the daylit, nearly-full moon rises / as I read green gabled words to my favorite lady / a hot bath at night keeps my own panic away / black bird, or crow or how the heck should I know / puffs his chest / flaps his wings / lets out a scream / then flies away as if to say / talking to the dog sometimes really helps

Advice from Ruby~

the words of Ruby Iris, my 2,1/2 year old grand-daughter:

“If you see a scary shadow, a grown-up will keep you safe.”

“Sometimes the shadow— is me.”

Ruby: “We should talk about something that we feel. And we can tell a grown-up how we feel.”
Her Momma: “Yes, of course.”
Ruby: “Absolutely.”

Lolly (that’s me): “Ruby, do you have a song in your heart?”
Ruby (singing): “You have dr-eeeeeam-s! You got them— in. your. heart!”

“I am safe. I am good. I am comfortable.” (repeat, while being held and gently rocked to sleep)

Sweet dreams, my friends, whenever you end this day. Thanks for being here, in the quiet and along for this ride. I’d love to hear what you are observing in your world; tell me something beautiful, scary or an unanswerable question you have. I’d love to hear from you!

Lisa

the Full Life
~ a tanka, 2024

I used to believe
the goal of life was to be 
happy. Oh, I am.
I feel happy, and when I 
feel sad, I am very sad.

This past week, holding Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the Lenten season, I was inspired to write a new poem, but it reminded me of an oldie from the archives, above, called the Full Life. It is everything to me; simple, and the place I’m so delighted to live— feeling all the feelings that are no longer unwelcome, but embraced. This is what it means, to me, to be whole and live the full life, even though it is often in seasons of wilderness— I leave you with today’s new hallowed poem:

Benj. & Georgie
by Lisa M. Johnson 

Benj. & Georgie Williams 
Born August 30, 1866
Died May 19, 1871

Marked little boy bodies 
who lay side by side 
and I wonder in:
everyone owes 
the earth a corpse.

Is this how we inherit the earth—
become one again with the soil, 
wombed in dust again? 

Because to lose a life 
is to lay it down 
in the mucky mud.
Because to gain it back, 
is to rise as a shoot 
bloomed a full life.

Because the acorn
and the whirlybird must 
be covered and die 
to sprout up new,
a sapling into a tall tree. 

Because to loosen my grip 
and wholly embrace all 
endings, the deaths of us,
and all beginnings, 
the births of us—
we cannot have one 
without the other. 

Because even Jesus, the man, 
wasn't too important to die—
also too loved 
to remain there. 

Life and death, 
the gold and the shadows,
fresh air and dust 
delights and disappointment
are no longer 
something to endure, 
but something altogether 
other—
to embrace. 

Thank you, as always, for being here in the quiet,

Lisa

note: “Everyone owes the earth a corpse.” is a quote from Kurt Armstrong in “The Love of God is Gruesome” It is such a great read!

ps: thanks to everyone who is sending me books for the inmates at Fayette Co. Detention Center! I’m so amazed at your generosity!! Keep them coming! Wish list link: Wish List (paperback only)