—Anonymous Photo
EVERYTHING RED FOR THE QUEEN
—Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
Everything is red
in the kingdom of the queen.
Matador hat with barnacles,
witch white hair to the shoulders,
tickling the breast.
In her eyes are the blood shot
of many vampires;
in her heart the daggers
of many soldiers.
Five inky fingers
cross her throat
like an ill-fitted necklace.
Her dress is like heart charms,
scales of fish dripping
blood toward her toes.
Withy, twists around her throat.
Anglers of the court toss hooks
toward her cherry red lips,
capture the moment
of the haze of purple
surrounding her head.
Everything is red
in the kingdom of the queen.
Death changes colors from red to blue.
—Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
Everything is red
in the kingdom of the queen.
Matador hat with barnacles,
witch white hair to the shoulders,
tickling the breast.
In her eyes are the blood shot
of many vampires;
in her heart the daggers
of many soldiers.
Five inky fingers
cross her throat
like an ill-fitted necklace.
Her dress is like heart charms,
scales of fish dripping
blood toward her toes.
Withy, twists around her throat.
Anglers of the court toss hooks
toward her cherry red lips,
capture the moment
of the haze of purple
surrounding her head.
Everything is red
in the kingdom of the queen.
Death changes colors from red to blue.
—Anonymous Photo
THE MARCH OF THE EMPORER PENGUINS
—Michael Lee Johnson
Emperor Penguins never set feet on land,
straight up their feet on ice, tuxedo's with short feathers
overlapped, waterproofed, inner down layers insulated with air.
Heads bobble fat fannies waddle, the march to the homeland begins.
70 miles the clan walks and slides away from the sea and back to the sea.
70 miles into the darkest, driest and coldest continent, Antarctica cradles up the South Pole.
High step, searching for partners for one year, away from predators, the mating party begins.
Mutual sex they turn check format a goal, breed their young, months of illness, hurt, struggles, isolation, separation face in the winter the great white ghost of death.
Starvation is a 2-way trip the male is the mother 120 days, mother goes for food-
at one point tough they all must go back to the ocean and sea.
Emperor Penguins they dance and huddle.
Back they go to the ice, to the flow, and sea 50/50, millions of years ago.
—Anonymous Photo
WHISPERS FROM THE GRAVE
(Heart attack, 50 years of age)
—Michael Lee Johnson
What happened to 20 acres of farmland tilted toward sun angles,
those sharp stone edges cool fall comes
frost fields covered taking ownership of rented, abused, abandoned land−
10 years Phil has been gone, DeKalb, Illinois farmer.
Did he find salvation in those gold cornfields?
October orange colors, hayrides, and pumpkin harvest
of grey, grave bones buried near the deadly bicycle ride.
Mystery did his lover Betsy
(defense, prosecuting attorney, Elgin, Illinois)
stand by his site after she went through mourning,
the grandstanding at the wake at the farm,
the dimming of all candles, incenses, and memorial shrine
she held sacred within her bedroom walls, now faded.
Mt. Pleasant Cemetery
MOUNT PLEASANT CEMETERY
(Toronto, Ontario Canada)
—Michael Lee Johnson
Gravediggers uprooting caskets
with sharp, steel shovels-
each slicing step downward
through nerve-rooted earth
cooper pennies jingle in change
pouches dangling by their sides.
They chat casually of Jesus,
His painless resurrection
from the sealed tomb,
money-changers being chased
away from God’s holy temple.
—Anonymous Photo
THE RAIN PARADE
—Marchelle Dyon, Chicago, IL
Hear the tom-tom drum
The sloshy swash
Click clacking
Sounds of rain
The happy heavenly tears of cherubs
Laughing, dancing harps of rhythmic
Water music F
A
L
L
I
N
G
Puddles pools into rivers of kaleidoscopes
Shaping rainbows
Turning umbrellas
Marching colorful rain boots
Prancing down morning mayhem
People-clogged streets.
______________________
DAY
—Marchelle Dyon
With the disappearance of ink clouds
Day begins with little shade folding out of darkness
Turning colors of blueberries and cream
With blotches of crimson-pinched cheeks thrown across the sky.
I know well the heralds of each dawn.
I know well the sparrow’s song.
I know well the rooster’s cock call.
I know before the deep mocha horizon begins to pale.
I know nature’s town criers that assure me all is well.
The sun lured by birdsong opens its wingspan
To be mathematically perched between the clouds
An aria of still life, a mystery rising
Light bringer an Aubade to lovers
Lovers wrestling angels to again with the blanket of night
I know well the heralds of each dawn.
I know well the sparrow’s song.
I know well the rooster’s cock call.
I know before the deep mocha horizon begins to pale.
I know nature’s town criers that assures me all is well.
I know the morning has a song, outside birds chirp it
The good news that comes with the sun
They sing in a leaning oak
Its leaves sweep back the dust and dark at my window
Day mirrors and shine onto my waking eyes all hallowed and divine
I know well the heralds of each dawn.
I know well the sparrow’s song.
I know well the rooster’s cock call.
I know before the deep mocha horizon begins pale.
I know nature’s town criers that assure me all is well.
—Anonymous Photo
MADDIE’S SONG
—Marchelle Dyon
She’s only two years old
And already on the move
She’s ready for the world
Her bright eyes, shine
Ready to take on the day
But
The world’s not ready for her
Still buckled down
With sleepy eyes of frost
While the world naps
Under a blanket of frosty wind
She wears her sweater-coat
Her gloved hands and her boots
She wears a hat with pompoms
Pompoms ringing like bells
Her imagination sparkles like snowflakes
She looks out the window into the dawn
Dreaming of the world outside and not dreaming
An old soul, her days already planned
She is only two years old
And already on the move
Ready to take on the world.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CITY OF VISIONS
—Marchell Dyon
We dream in concrete
Our thoughts are pillars whitewashed with sun
Our eyes rotate like pigeons’
Pigeons perch still, like gargoyles in the park
Warding off the evil eyes of March
We dream in streetlight
Playing at being peeping toms
Shinning blinding light
Playing laser tag
Into one another’s dream mirror
We dream in prisms
Some dark, some surreal
Ghosted rainbows
Shading a sundial of stone
_____________________
Our thanks to Illinoisans Michael Johnson and Marchelle Dyon for today’s hearty soufflé of poetry to get us through the middle of the week! Michael has provided the photos to go with his poems; the rain boots I posted with Marchelle’s, well, they just seemed right…
—Medusa
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate poetry!
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then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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