Beach Boys, Dance

 

Alberta Bound

—Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL

—Photos Courtesy of Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

 

 ALBERTA BOUND
 
I own a gate to this prairie
that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.
They call it Alberta—
trails of endless blue sky
asylum of endless winters,
the hermitage of indolent retracted sun.
Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.
Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,
ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.
Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.
Travel weary, I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.
In harmony North to South
Gordon Lightfoot pitches out a tune—
"Alberta Bound."
With independence in my veins,
I am a long way from my home.

 

 

 

 
TINY SPARROW FEET
 
It's calm.
Cheeky, unexpected.
Too quiet.
My clear plastic bowls
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 big band sounds.
I walk tentatively to my patio window,
spy the balcony with my detective's 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.

 

 

 

 

 

BEACH BOYS, DANCE
 
They dance and drum to their songs.
Boogaloo Boys, Beach Boys, still, band members die.
Revolts and rebellion always end in peace, left for the living.
Even the smoking voice of Carl Wilson dies
with a canary inside his cancerous throat called "Darlin."
Dennis Wilson, hitchhiking, panhandling with the devil Charles Manson,
toying with heroin, he's just too much trouble to live.
Check their history of the living and the dead;
you will find them there, minor parts and pieces
musical notes stuck in stone wall cracks,
imbibe alcohol, cocaine.
Names fade, urns toss to sea
dump all lives brief memories,
bingo, no jackpot.

 

 

 

 

 

THE REDEMPTION
 
My eyes green
are 2 glass windows
into the past.
I keep the blinds
pulled down tight.
Carnal knowledge
is a Biblical definition of sin.
I live in darkness,
the shame of those early years.
I pull myself out,
redemption in old age,
a savior,
before the grave,
I flatter myself
in a mirror, no reflection.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.

—Woody Allen

_______________________

Our thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for dropping into the Kitchen this morning with fine poetry and intriguing photos!

Correction to yesterday’s post: Linda Klein lives in Playa Vista, CA, not Jefferson City, MO. My bad, Linda; I’ve fixed it on the post.

And tonight at 7pm, Poetry Night in Davis features a bonus Zoom reading with Philip Metres at ucdavisdss.zoom.us/my/andyojones/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/458763805292013?active_tab=about/. Host: Andy Jones, with an introduction by Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!