Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
Piecemeal summer dies;
the spread of long winter blanket again.
For ten years I have lived in exile,
locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
jostled up against open Alberta sky.
If I were young again I’d sing of the coolness of high mountain snow flowers,
the sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows; I would dream and stretch slim fingers
into the distant nowhere, yawn slowly over the endless prairie miles.
Prairie grassland is where in summer silence grows;
in the evening eagles spread wings
dripping like wild honey.
If I were young again I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves, I’d have as much dessert as wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingers.
But I’m not young anymore, my thoughts tormented,
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery from torture of war and childhood.
For ten years now I have lived locked in this unstable cabin,
inside the rush of summer winds, outside air beaten dim with snow.
-1985-
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
Michael Lee Johnson
60143-1542
PO Box 486, Itasca, IL 60143
Ph/Fax (630) 467-1332/30
E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com
Or: poetryman@walla.com
(If you see any typo’s please let me know)
Tiny Sparrow Feet
By Michael Lee Johnson
It’s calm.
Too quiet.
My clear plastic bowl
serves as my bird feeder.
I don’t hear the distant
scratching, shuffling
of tiny sparrow feet,
the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry
morning’s lack of the big band sounds.
I walk tentatively to my patio window,
spy the balcony with detective sensitive eyes.
I witness three newly hatched
toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted
deep, in their mother’s dead, decaying back.
Their childish beaks bent over elongated,
delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.
-2007-
In the Garden Where the Flowers Grow
(Photo available on request- Ecphrasis)
By Michael Lee Johnson
I’m going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden of Jesus, olive oil presses, Gethsemane--
trees, flowers, fruits, vegetables didn’t poison anyone there.
Passion was sweat on the ground and brow.
There weren’t darts of hate, misconception or terrorism;
children on their knees five times a day brainwashed to hate.
Christ didn’t lead them astray nor make them pagan pink.
There is no God apart from Allah, and Mohammed is the Prophet,
but it’s Jesus who makes the garden grow with or without water.
Then and now the apples grow in my garden of forgiveness.
Figs trees grow far away where I can’t reach them but believe in them.
Like the Tamarisk tree, Christ is a source of honey,
manna and wafer, a taste so sweet in the desert so dry.
You don’t have to be a scholar to write poetry, religion, or understand
the Eucharist; but you need to be a real saint to know the difference.
Islam, is Judas Iscariot among your converts nose pointed toward
Mecca today?
I’m going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden where the flowers grow.
-2007-
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
There is a full moon,
distant in the sky, tonight,
Grey planets are planted
on an aging white face.
Children, living & dead,
love the moon with small hearts.
Those in heaven already take gold thread,
drop the moon down for us all to see;
Those alive with us, look out their
bedroom windows, tonight, & smile-
Then prayers, then sleep.
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
It was here in
the breeze...
I thought of you.
Why was it you
threw sunshine
in my eyes?
Why was it you kissed
the sky a tender shade
of blue?
Touch me to the winds...
and I shall carry you
to a long lost love
somewhere beneath the
willow tree
you loved
so much.
Beyond the hidden shadows of my mind,
or beyond the shades that trace across the sky
covering the warming touches of the sun...
all skies are blue,
and all tender whisperings
of the breeze...
are but thoughtful
memories of you.
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
Stretched across the ravine,
the walking bridge
is covered with snow.
Steam lifts from the narrow river bed below.
The hand guided ropes are glazed over with ice.
Raccoon tracks are pepper sprinkled in front of me
like virgin markers leaving a fresh, first trail.
Once across, and safe,
I toss yellow bread crumbs across white snow
for starving birds.
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|
Details |
Micahel Johnson Poem
Friendship is continuous-,
it evolves & it revolves
around the sight of each other
the feelings of one another,
the small kisses in the doorway.
Friendship is a love circle.
it trips around & rotates around tough
angles when the one mate
feels the other is in trouble-
often i feel like touching you intimately-
exchanging my kitty, Nikki,
for you warm breast, thighs, and the touch of your behind...
or just hours of endless talk and child babble,
but tonight i am heavy wondering beneath
your shallow words-are you alright?
Has the day/the night been good to you?
Friendship is continuous-,
it evolves & it revolves
around the sight of each other
the feelings of one another,
the small kisses in the doorway.
friendship is a love circle.
Copyright © Micahel Johnson | Year Posted 2007
|