The
Poetry Of Michael Lee Johnson
Willow
Tree Night and Snowy Visitors
Winter is tapping
on the hollow willow tree's trunk--
a four month visitor is about to move in
and unload his messy clothing
and be windy about it--
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow
leave's widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The willow tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.
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Manic
is the Dark Night
Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It is here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
"Don't smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?"
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Damn I just feel happy!
Back into the wood of somberness
back into the twigs,
sedated the psychiatrist
scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:
"mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe
lithium, do I need to call the police?"
No sir, back into the dark woods I go.
Controlled, to get my meds. I
twist and rearrange my smile,
crooked, to fit the immediate need.
Deep in my forest
the trees have turned black again,
to satisfy the conveyer--
the Lord of the dark wood.
top
Bird
Feeder
Baby,
born
just
a
sparrow-
first flight
from balcony
to tree limb.
A chip of corn falls
from the feeder
to the ground.
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Mother,
Edith, at 98
Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace--
as yesterday's winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.
"Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to, she murmured,
over and over again,"
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is my my
Angel of the coming."
top
I
Brew in Broth
When the silence of my
life tickles in darkness
delves into my daily routine
caught in my melancholy music
at times, not exact;
then exuberant auto racing playing
at times, not exact;
(a new poem published or a kick in the ass)
kick smacks like tornado alley
in the tomato can
left over-paste
of my emotions
at times, not exact;
I realize the split of legacy,
of loyalty on its knees fractured
like a comma or sentence fragment,
naked like a broken egg
between friendship and hatred,
I stew like beef then broth
simmering
sort of liked, sort of hated,
not exact.
Poem
From My Grave
Don't bring the rosary beads
it's too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals--
ground hogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer's cornfields..
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priests would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodom & Gomorrah.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois,
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends where we said prayers privately like
silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It's too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.
-2008-
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Michael Lee Johnson is a poet,
and freelance writer. He is self-employed in advertising, selling
custom promotional products. He is the author of The Lost American:
From Exile to Freedom,
http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7.
He is also nominated for the
James B. Baker Award in poetry, Sam's Dot Publishing. He is a
contributor in the Silver Boomers poetry anthology about aging
baby boomers, by Silver Boomer Books.
Michael presently resides
in Itasca, Illinois, United States. He lived in Canada during
the Vietnam era and will be published as a contributor poet in
the anthology Crossing Lines: Poets Who Came to Canada in the
Vietnam War Era publication scheduled for early 2008. He has
been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland,
Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom,
Republic of Sierra Leone, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, and Malaysia.
Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/.
He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy, and Birds By
My Window: Willow Tree Poems.
Special Note: Michael is presently
looking for an e-book, chapbook or poetry book publisher for
a joint venture of poems by Michael Lee Johnson, United States,
free verse; and Phillip Ellis, Australian poet,
traditional verse. Manuscript can be made available on request.
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