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Best Poems Written by Natalie Johnson

Below are the all-time best Natalie Johnson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Paralysis

In a small room where the shadows grew large
I was thinking about my escape
Like a fisherman’s catch
Cast back into the greatest lake of Michigan
The room grew dim, and then glowed red
And cast me off into a deep sleep
Mind open, body stuck,
Climbing the deck of a boat-
Escape
As my body froze and I was fastened
To the cold relentless metal
And I opened my eyes 
I never felt the tender brush of sleep again

Copyright © Natalie Johnson | Year Posted 2025



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A molasses summer

You Follow me home because I’m scared of strangers
I know what’s looming behind me
I know you carry a knife in your pocket
But it’s ok
only mysteries scare me

You Drown me in a bath
Than lay me out in the sun to dry
In the drip dried summer that sank
Like a glass ball in a jar of molasses

You Swim in a sea of my blood 
Cause It’s the same as loving me
Don’t think
Just take it

I wade by the shore 
and don’t go where I can’t touch
You knock my heart on granite
Its an egg you will to crack

Copyright © Natalie Johnson | Year Posted 2025

Details | Natalie Johnson Poem

Father of the Ripening Dawn

May peace follow you-said the half naked lady that breathed life into the night

Return the calm you took from me, fair lady of the sky

Every night I see you-
Just as I saw you with my lover,
And just as I saw you with my grief
Become new or I will cease the dark-
the dark permitting your presence

My presence is vowed said she-
See me not but you will feel the light of my soul.
Tomorrow I will become new-
You will always feel my pull, father of the ripening dawn
To extract me from your being is to cease your own existence 

Copyright © Natalie Johnson | Year Posted 2025

Details | Natalie Johnson Poem

The Widdler


A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.

The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,

And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.

A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,

Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.

She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.

She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl 
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair 

The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring 
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum

She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways 

Copyright © Natalie Johnson | Year Posted 2025


Book: Reflection on the Important Things