Bird Feeder

Baby,
born
just
a
sparrow-
first flight
from balcony
to tree limb.
A chip of corn falls
from the feeder
to the ground.

-2007-

 

 

Mother, Edith, at 98

Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace–
as yesterday’s winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.

“Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to, she murmured,
over and over again,”
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
“Oh, there He is my my
Angel of the coming.”

-2007-

 

I Brew in Broth

When the silence of my
life tickles in darkness
delves into my daily routine
caught in my melancholy music
at times, not exact;
then exuberant auto racing playing
at times, not exact;
(a new poem published or a kick in the ass)
kick smacks like tornado alley
in the tomato can
left over-paste
of my emotions
at times, not exact;
I realize the split of legacy,
of loyalty on its knees fractured
like a comma or sentence fragment,
naked like a broken egg
between friendship and hatred,
I stew like beef then broth
simmering
sort of liked, sort of hated,
not exact.

-2007-

 

Poem From My Grave

Don’t bring the rosary beads
it’s too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals–
ground hogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer’s cornfields..
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priests would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodom & Gomorrah.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois,
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends where we said prayers privately like silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It’s too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.

-2007-

 

_______________________

 

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries. He also edits seven poetry sites. Michael has released The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 56 poetry videos on YouTube.