—Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
—Visuals Courtesy of Michael Johnson
KANSAS, OLD ABANDONED HOUSE
House, weathered, bashed-in grays, spiders,
homespun surrounding yellows and pinks
on a Kansas prairie appears lonely tonight.
The human theater lives once lived here
inside are gone now,
buried in the back, dark trail
behind that old outhouse.
Old wood chipper in the shed, rustic, worn, no gas, no thunder, no sound.
Remember the old coal bin, now open to the wind,
but no one left to shovel the coal.
Pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hayrides all gone.
Deserted ghostly children still swing abandoned in the prairie wind.
All unheated rooms no longer have children
to fret about, cheerleaders have long gone,
the banal house chills once again, it is winter,
three lone skinny crows perched out of sight
on barren branched trees silhouetted in early morning
hints of pink, those blues, wait with hunger strikes as winter,
that snow starts to settle in against moonlight skies.
Kansas becomes a quiet place when that first snow falls.
There is the dancing of the crows—
that lonely wind, that creaking of the doors, no oil in the joints.
House, weathered, bashed-in grays, spiders,
homespun surrounding yellows and pinks
on a Kansas prairie appears lonely tonight.
The human theater lives once lived here
inside are gone now,
buried in the back, dark trail
behind that old outhouse.
Old wood chipper in the shed, rustic, worn, no gas, no thunder, no sound.
Remember the old coal bin, now open to the wind,
but no one left to shovel the coal.
Pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hayrides all gone.
Deserted ghostly children still swing abandoned in the prairie wind.
All unheated rooms no longer have children
to fret about, cheerleaders have long gone,
the banal house chills once again, it is winter,
three lone skinny crows perched out of sight
on barren branched trees silhouetted in early morning
hints of pink, those blues, wait with hunger strikes as winter,
that snow starts to settle in against moonlight skies.
Kansas becomes a quiet place when that first snow falls.
There is the dancing of the crows—
that lonely wind, that creaking of the doors, no oil in the joints.
JASPER
Old Irving Park,
Chicago neighborhood
Jasper lives in a garret
no bigger than a single bed.
Jasper, 69, clouds of smoke
Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes.
He dips Oreo cookies in skim milk.
Six months ago
the state revoked
his driver’s license—
between the onset
of macular degeneration,
gas at $4.65 a gallon,
and late-stage emphysema,
life for Jasper has stalled out
in the middle lane—
like his middle-month
social security check, it is gone.
There is nothing academic about Jasper’s life.
Today the mailbox journey is down
the spiraling stairwell; midway,
he leans against the wall.
Deep-breathes from his oxygen tank.
Life is annoying with plastic tubes up his nose.
Relief, back in the attic, with just his oxygen tank,
his Chicago Cubs, losers, are playing
on his radio, WGN, 720 AM.
Equipment, enjoyment at last,
Jasper leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner.
He reaches for a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
Jasper grabs a lukewarm Budweiser beer from his mini-fridge.
Deep-breathes, a match lit, near his oxygen tank.
Old Irving Park,
Chicago neighborhood
Jasper lives in a garret
no bigger than a single bed.
Jasper, 69, clouds of smoke
Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes.
He dips Oreo cookies in skim milk.
Six months ago
the state revoked
his driver’s license—
between the onset
of macular degeneration,
gas at $4.65 a gallon,
and late-stage emphysema,
life for Jasper has stalled out
in the middle lane—
like his middle-month
social security check, it is gone.
There is nothing academic about Jasper’s life.
Today the mailbox journey is down
the spiraling stairwell; midway,
he leans against the wall.
Deep-breathes from his oxygen tank.
Life is annoying with plastic tubes up his nose.
Relief, back in the attic, with just his oxygen tank,
his Chicago Cubs, losers, are playing
on his radio, WGN, 720 AM.
Equipment, enjoyment at last,
Jasper leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner.
He reaches for a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
Jasper grabs a lukewarm Budweiser beer from his mini-fridge.
Deep-breathes, a match lit, near his oxygen tank.
SHOWERS & RAIN
I’d like to see you in showers,
shadows, memories, final hours
that end this rain.
Daisies reveal your simple secrets,
yellow perverted pleasures, complicated,
often unseen mysteries like
COVID-19 virus.
Forget your sins & dance with me.
All petals at some point fall
in season come to despair
same as a desperate ending.
I focus on memories now
represent all short stories shared,
a poem or two no one will remember,
a Hemingway legacy funeral,
one family member,
one suicide at a time.
I’d like to see you in showers,
shadows, memories, final hours
that end this rain.
Daisies reveal your simple secrets,
yellow perverted pleasures, complicated,
often unseen mysteries like
COVID-19 virus.
Forget your sins & dance with me.
All petals at some point fall
in season come to despair
same as a desperate ending.
I focus on memories now
represent all short stories shared,
a poem or two no one will remember,
a Hemingway legacy funeral,
one family member,
one suicide at a time.
DEATH CERTIFICATES
We all wait for our death certificates—
aging bodies, sagging arms, necks with wrinkles.
We drag our bodies around shopping malls
in all shapes, funny forms, walk
around in tennis shoes early mornings.
Don’t stretch out here too far.
Just get our groceries, see our grandchildren,
Lucky Charms, no witchcraft, but Jesus
finds our way home.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Don’t forget—no one sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.
—Charles de Lint
____________________
Many thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for visiting the Kitchen this morning! He writes that he has many Facebook poetry groups, and has recently added a new one at www.facebook.com/groups/3588433927952551/. The focus of this one is on educating, learning, and progressing as consequential poets and writers. He will supply articles, interesting poetic tidbits and poetic techniques, and he hopes members will do the same.
Today (6/12), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance (www.sacramentopoetryalliance.com) presents Jeff Ewing’s reading and book release at 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. for his new book, Wind Apples (Terrapin Press, www.terrapinbooks.com/ewing.html), plus open mic. Please bring a mask if not vaccinated. Host: Tim Kahl.
We all wait for our death certificates—
aging bodies, sagging arms, necks with wrinkles.
We drag our bodies around shopping malls
in all shapes, funny forms, walk
around in tennis shoes early mornings.
Don’t stretch out here too far.
Just get our groceries, see our grandchildren,
Lucky Charms, no witchcraft, but Jesus
finds our way home.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Don’t forget—no one sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.
—Charles de Lint
____________________
Many thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for visiting the Kitchen this morning! He writes that he has many Facebook poetry groups, and has recently added a new one at www.facebook.com/groups/3588433927952551/. The focus of this one is on educating, learning, and progressing as consequential poets and writers. He will supply articles, interesting poetic tidbits and poetic techniques, and he hopes members will do the same.
Today (6/12), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance (www.sacramentopoetryalliance.com) presents Jeff Ewing’s reading and book release at 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. for his new book, Wind Apples (Terrapin Press, www.terrapinbooks.com/ewing.html), plus open mic. Please bring a mask if not vaccinated. Host: Tim Kahl.
_____________________
—Medusa
Kansas
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!
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!
