—Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Michael Lee Johnson
MY LIFE
My life began with a skeleton
with a smile and bubbling eyes
in my garden of dandelions.
Everything else fell off the edge,
a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.
When young, I pressed
against my mother’s breast,
but youthful memories fell short.
I tried at 8 to kiss my father,
but he was a welder, fox hunter,
coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.
My young life was a mixture
of black, white, dark dreams,
and mellow-yellow-sun-bright hopes.
Rewind, sunshine was a stranger
in dandelion fields,
shadows in my eyes.
I grabbed my injured legs
leap forward into the future.
I’m now a vitamin-C boy;
it keeps me immured
from catching colds or Covid-19.
Everything now still leaks, in parts,
but I press forward.
My life began with a skeleton
with a smile and bubbling eyes
in my garden of dandelions.
Everything else fell off the edge,
a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.
When young, I pressed
against my mother’s breast,
but youthful memories fell short.
I tried at 8 to kiss my father,
but he was a welder, fox hunter,
coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.
My young life was a mixture
of black, white, dark dreams,
and mellow-yellow-sun-bright hopes.
Rewind, sunshine was a stranger
in dandelion fields,
shadows in my eyes.
I grabbed my injured legs
leap forward into the future.
I’m now a vitamin-C boy;
it keeps me immured
from catching colds or Covid-19.
Everything now still leaks, in parts,
but I press forward.
JESUS AND HOW HE
MUST HAVE FELT
Staggering out Wee-Willy's
dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes,
my feelings desensitizing,
confusing my avocado fart,
at 3:20 a.m., with last night
splash on Brut aftershave.
Whispering to my outcast
self-sounding is more like pending death.
My body detaching from myself,
numbed by winter's fingers.
I creak up these outside stairs
to my apartment after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle
London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
I thought of Jesus
how He must have felt
during His resurrection
dragging His holy body
up that endless stairwell
spiraling toward heaven.
MUST HAVE FELT
Staggering out Wee-Willy's
dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes,
my feelings desensitizing,
confusing my avocado fart,
at 3:20 a.m., with last night
splash on Brut aftershave.
Whispering to my outcast
self-sounding is more like pending death.
My body detaching from myself,
numbed by winter's fingers.
I creak up these outside stairs
to my apartment after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle
London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
I thought of Jesus
how He must have felt
during His resurrection
dragging His holy body
up that endless stairwell
spiraling toward heaven.
Inside this late October 31st night,
this poem turns into a pumpkin.
Animation, something has gone
devilishly wrong with my imagery.
I take the lid off the pumpkin’s headlight
and the pink candles inside.
Demons cry, crawl, split, fly outsides—
escape through the pumpkin’s eyes.
I’m mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation.
Outside, quietly tapping Hazel the witch,
her broomstick against my windowpane rattles.
She says, “nothing seems to rhyme anymore,
nothing seems to make any sense,
but the night is young.
Give me back my magical bag of tricks.
As Robert Frost said:
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
MOST POEMS
Most poems are pounded out
in emotional flesh, sometimes
physical skin scalped feelings.
It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross
a Mary kneeling at the bottom
not knotted in love but roped,
a blade of a bowie knife
heavenward.
I look for the kicker line
the close at the bottom
seek a public poetry forum
to cheer my aspirations on.
I hear those faraway voices
carrying my life away—
a retreat into insanity.
POETS IN THE RAIN
All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak
sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.
Crazy, and suicidal, we know who they are:
Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas
the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale.
This group grows a Pinocchio nose.
At times I capture you here under control.
I want to inspect you.
All can be found in faith once
now gone in time.
With all your concerns, I see
your eyes layered in shades of green,
confused within you about me.
Forgive me; I’m just a touch
of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle
Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly.
We don’t know if it is all worth it.
I have refined my image, and my taste
continues to thrust inside your crevices.
Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie.
Asteroid Ceres looks like you are passing gas,
exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice
on a balmy rock just like yours.
I will wait centuries, like critics, to review
this fecund body of yours—
soiled, then poppies,
poetry in the rain.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
—Anne Sexton
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for today’s poetry and photos!
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