—Anonymous Photos
FEBRUARY 20, 2016
—Michael Ceraolo, Willoughby Hills, OH
1
Sixty degrees,
yet
still some snow piles remain
But not snow
with the original chemical composition
of frozen H2O;
no,
this is a new compound:
dirt
with an as-yet unanalyzed
chemical makeup
holding the snow together
long past the melting point
of ordinary frozen H2O,
needing
rain to completely dissolve
the new chemical bond
2
Salt stains remain on the roadways,
and
people take advantage of the weather,
lining up waiting to get in to
the car washes to have the stains
washed away
And
some motorcyclists whiz past,
taking
advantage of a rare winter opportunity
3
I returned some books to the library,
behind
which sit some ball fields
And
behind the backstop of the closest field
sits the remnant of a tree,
cut down
to a little over six feet tall
and with much of the bark stripped off
I got out of the car and walked over
to take a closer look
Up close
it was just about the height
I had estimated it to be,
and
was at least six feet around
Surprise!
Where the bark was stripped
was carved in relief a home plate
And
the tallest projections,
ones
that looked like warped branches from afar,
turned out to be carved in the shape
of two softball bats
And
a glove and softball were also carved
in relief;
fitting I first noticed this
on a winter day speaking of spring and baseball
4
Most of the deciduous trees are bare,
but
there are a few still hanging on
to last year's dead leaves
And
there are a couple of trees
that have last year's dead berries,
shriveled and dark,
next to
some of this year's shiny new berries
seduced in ripening early,
and
soon to die when the cold returns
5
Near the abandoned castle
there were several sets of tire tracks
in the soft soggy ground,
and
signs showing where the bridle paths were
In front of the castle was also
an unmarked bridal path,
trod
very carefully by the couple
and the photographer
(while
the rest of the bridal party
stood safely on paved walkways)
But
they were not careful enough to avoid
getting some mud on the bottom
of the gown touching the ground
I was curious,
and we
happened to be walking to our cars
at the same time,
so I asked
Were you hoping for snow
for the pictures?
And
the bride answered an emphatic yes,
happy that someone else understood,
while
the groom answered,
less emphatically,
they were happy the way it turned out
POETS OUT OF SERVICE
—Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
Like a full service gas station,
or postal service workers,
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, Smartphones, life is cam ready to shoot, destroy.
No one reads poets anymore.
No one thumbs through yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore, just naked shots online?
Streetwalkers, cosmetic, bleach blonde whores,
plastic altered faces in neon night,
do not bother to pick pennies or quarters off the streets, anymore.
The days of nickel bag of candy, pennies lying on the counter top-
for Tar Babies, String licorice, Wax Lips,
Pixie Sticks, Good and Plenty, no more.
Everyone is a stop end player in time.
Monster technology destroys culture fragments, efforts in mindlessness.
Old age is a passive slut, conversations distilled, serrated
measurements by number of slim toothpicks,
matchbooks of many colors vanished.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full service gas station.
Poets are out of business.
—Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
Like a full service gas station,
or postal service workers,
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, Smartphones, life is cam ready to shoot, destroy.
No one reads poets anymore.
No one thumbs through yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore, just naked shots online?
Streetwalkers, cosmetic, bleach blonde whores,
plastic altered faces in neon night,
do not bother to pick pennies or quarters off the streets, anymore.
The days of nickel bag of candy, pennies lying on the counter top-
for Tar Babies, String licorice, Wax Lips,
Pixie Sticks, Good and Plenty, no more.
Everyone is a stop end player in time.
Monster technology destroys culture fragments, efforts in mindlessness.
Old age is a passive slut, conversations distilled, serrated
measurements by number of slim toothpicks,
matchbooks of many colors vanished.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full service gas station.
Poets are out of business.
WILLOW TREE AND THE RAIN FALLS
—Michael Lee Johnson
Willow tree where the rain falls,
two loved pets beneath these roots,
Mo Joe and Joey parakeets,
gray sand like dandruff packs
them in close and tight.
I offer the Lord’s Prayer
a form of biblical relief.
Thunder at 3:37 A.M. Thursday night
wonder of my dream mind loves thunder rain.
It is just a part of me, loose with wind.
I know in the A.M. blending in the moisture
birds will chirp sounds blasting echoes
against the surface of the sun.
Before the dawn light, small minds like my own
become active gearing thoughts toward work-
economizing each part of me, loose like threads in wind.
This is the willow tree where the rain falls.
I am self-employed, in my
primitive occupation selling pens,
pads of paper, calendars, tee shirts
names customized printed on them.
It is just a part of me loose with the wind.
Life as an author is a daily man grind
to coffee grounds and skeleton bone leftovers-
with the thunderclaps, and lack of sleep, well deserved.
TURNIP IN THE STILL
—Michael Lee Johnson
In shadow wooden structures
stalled highway up staircases
to the top, the redwood scares me looking down.
Murders of the past, hidden in blue walls, lies,
bullet marks on the right side in plaster
confirm my belief that Jesus only works part time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo one more time
find the turnip in the still.
ROAD BUGGIES, RECESSION, DEPRESSION, OBAMA
—Michael Lee Johnson
Faith is here, but so is fear.
Mirror held reflection vision of our times.
Skelton bone, starvation, and Indian folklore;
George W. Bush, Yale playboy drunk, transition,
best jackass of the decade candidate,
layover, hangover, fussy cat eater-
residual economic leaves that were left over’s
convenient forgot to rake, residual links.
Daddy asked me to come home to the oil fields
comfort, and keep my mouth shut.
Sky blues, anxieties touch nerves, resorts
to prayers, however do you define it: Muhammad
drenched in Islam and child perversion, Christianity
Jesus Christ no sin, Buddhism many gods
in a shack, a sling shot for hope.
Buddha, the wasted years, the big belly
that has always needed a diet.
All are sinners of the clove and the garlic.
Piles of money mount in an Arab land.
Wasted dollars in Iraq that could have been
used for health care.
Simple sentences poetic and prose,
syntax undefined in desert sand nights.
Notes, bitches to myself:
$50,000 Hummer,
struts bumping
up down
pop holed streets.
Recession, depression, Obama
George W. Bush.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SADLY, WE DIE
—Michael Lee Johnson
Sadly, we die in little black suitcase boxes,
cave into our fears and the top falls down.
Save the laughter, celebration, thunder clapping,
rats experimentally test shed light at end of life's tunnel.
Death is a midnight stoker, everyone living goes home.
All windows bolted, all smiles switched off.
Sad on examination tables,
in little rooms, red, with lightening we die,
move on.
_____________________
Our thanks to today’s fine contributors from Ohio and Illinois, plus the local photographer who always chooses to remain anonymous. Remember that all photos in the cream-colored, “daily diary” section of the Kitchen can be enlarged with a single click.
Please note that there is a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page, thanks to Michelle Kunert, this one of last Sunday’s reading at Einstein Residential Center. Check it out!
There are also two new links in the Webilicious section in the green box at the right of this cream one; these connect to info and video about the bower bird, in case you don’t know about him and his artisanship.
And don’t forget that this week's Seed of the Week comes with a prize and a deadline: send poems, artwork and/or photos about the subject of Silence to kathykieth@hotmail.com before midnight this Sunday and I’ll mail you a free copy of the newest WTF!
—Medusa
