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Poem: Churning In and Out

Churning noises inside

of me. Oh, the pressure!

Outside, the August sun setting

behind red and white oak trees.


Sunflowers following

the sunset. In sync. Wafts

of ragweed pollen

and barbeque along


my neighbourhood’s walking path,

my dalmatian in tow. Creaking

chameleons, shuffling. Children

playing, laughing. Grey catbirds


singing in realms within realms.

Sounds rippling, rushing, rasping.

One hundred billion stars circling,

bursting. The flow of everything pulsating


interminably. In the basement of my head,

only grumbling. How can I attune to it all

when I cannot even listen to my own

breath? Oddly disconnected


from my body. Arms flapping,

each guided by separate

instructions, my left hand

separate from its right


companion. Upset stomach!

Can I attune to a knowing

voice of voices, an unspoken

well in the depths of my body?

Can I witness stress, fetch my focus from

whence it is? Disconnected. Not

in the moment. My body, hollow, empty

inside. My existence, housed some place


between my ears. Sheer thinking

lights me up, like a Christmas tree.

I yearn to be in a container, a loving

womb, seeing me for who I am.


My whole self. I breathe in from

my belly. It expands

then contracts, my exhale

longer than the inhale.


My dalmatian leads

the way, towards the pet

store two and a half kilometres

down the road, licking her lips.

A Johnson



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