I Brew in Broth

Michael Lee Johnson

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.

Mother, Edith, at 98

Michael Lee Johnson

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.”

Manic Is the Dark Night

Michael Lee Johnson

Deep into the forest

the trees have turned

black, and the sun

has disappeared in

the distance beneath

the earth line, leaving

the sky a palette of grays

sheltering the pine trees

with pitch-tar shadows.

It is here in this black

and sky gray the mind

turns psycho

tosses norms and pathos

into a ground cellar of hell,

tosses words out through the teeth.

“Don’t smile or act funny,

try to be cute with me;

how can I help you today

out of your depression?”

I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon

with euphoric gaiety.

Damn I just feel happy!

Back into the wood of somberness

back into the twigs,

sedated the psychiatrist

scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:

“Mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe

lithium, do I need to call the police?”

No sir, back into the dark woods I go.

Controlled, to get my meds. I

twist and rearrange my smile,

crooked, to fit the immediate need.

Deep in my forest

the trees have turned black again,

to satisfy the conveyer—

the Lord of the dark wood.

Willow Tree Night and Snowy Visitors

Michael Lee Johnson

Winter is tapping

on the hollow willow tree’s trunk—

a four month visitor is about to move in

and unload his messy clothing

and be windy about it—

bark is grayish white as coming night with snow

fragments the seasons.

The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket

over the courtyard greens and coats a

ghostly white mist over yellowed willow

leave’s widely spaced teeth—

you can hear them clicking

like false teeth

or chattering like chipmunks

threatened in a distant burrow.

The willow tree knows the old man

approaching has showed up again,

in early November with

ice-packed cheeks and brutal

puffy wind whistling with a sting.

Cheeks Shining, Mine So Wet

Michael Lee Johnson

Shining, wet

my son's peachy cheeks

have turned to beard and stubbles.

The turning of age stings.

As a mother I'm not allowed

anymore to kiss this now

complicated face.

His teen years stalked my doors

with sticky eyes and frightening nights¾

the ghostly memories, splinters, tiny bruises,

his boastful nature after the last date and conquest,

make me ache at my breasts.

He dances with twisted metal, reflecting,

the slight pause, flashing lights surrounding his room.

The room, his room.

He searches for a wisp of what was,

he holds thoughtless the intruding demons.

I wonder and dream, phantasm, partitions

all at arms length, my son.

His cheeks shining, mine so very wet.

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, and freelance writer, Itasca, Illinois¾ author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7.

He has also published two chapbooks of poetry. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, and Malaysia. He is also publisher and editor of four poetry, flash fiction sites—all presently open for submission:

http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/

http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/

Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/