Michael Lee Johnson, US

 

 

Free Verse   Tiny Sparrow Feet   It's calm. Too quiet. My clear plastic bowl serves as my bird feeder. I don't hear the distant scratching, shuffling of tiny sparrow feet, the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry morning's lack of big band sounds. I walk tentatively to my patio window, spy the balcony with detective eyes. I witness three newly hatched toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back. Their childish beaks bent over elongated, delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn. 2007     The Christians Arrived   Salvation Army and the Christians arrived today, Christmas, like every other Sunday morning feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom, basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots where the cat used to lounge— clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection. I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless. I forgot what it's like to be a poet of the cloth, savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into. I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand, And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other. It's all a matter of praising the Lord. Everything is nonsense when you're in a place where you don't belong. Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering. Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others; feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation. I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a 6 pack of Budweiser with or without the Chicago Bears—it would make every Sunday a Salvation Army holiday. Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type, dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved. I feel like a fragment. A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented. Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers, Christians arrived on Christmas day— they always do every Sunday morning. I pastor to these desires. It's all a matter of praising the Lord. The Christians arrived today. 2007       in the Garden Where the Flowers Grow   I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before— to the garden of Jesus, olive oil presses, Gethsemane— trees, flowers, fruits, vegetables didn't poison anyone there. Passion was sweat on the ground and brow. There weren't darts of hate, misconception or terrorism; children on their knees five times a day brainwashed to hate. Christ didn't lead them astray nor make them pagan pink. There is no God apart from Allah, and Mohammed is the Prophet, but it's Jesus who makes the garden grow with or without water. Then and now the apples grow in my garden of forgiveness. Figs trees grow far away where I can't reach them but believe in them. Like the Tamarisk tree, Christ is a source of honey, manna and wafer, a taste so sweet in the desert so dry. You don't have to be a scholar to write poetry, religion, or understand the Eucharist; but you need to be a real saint to know the difference. Islam, is Judas Iscariot among your converts nose pointed toward Mecca today? I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before— to the garden where the flowers grow. 2007       Twist My Words   I see the spring dance all over your face in green you were arrogant before you viewed my willow tree outside my balcony. Now you wave at me with green fingers and lime smiles. You twist my words, Harvard collegiate style, right where you want them to be— lime green, willow tree, and dark skinned branches. 2007     Berenika   Do what I tell you to do your face is like flour dough your nose like a slant directionally unknown like an adverb— tossed into space. Your hat is like an angel wedding gown draped over vodka body like a Christ shield protecting you in innocence. It is here I kiss your lips as a total stranger; bring myself closely to your eyes; camp out on your narrow lips and wait for the morning before I slide like a sled deep snow, away. 2007

 

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request. This is his first appearance in Sketchbook. 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/ Special Note: Michael Lee Johnson, United States, and Phillip Ellis, an Australian poet, are looking for a chapbook publisher for a joint venture merging free verse with more traditional verse. Mr. Johnson has two chapbooks ready for publishing review. Manuscripts are available on request. Michael Lee Johnson, 1531 W Irving Park Rd, 212C, Itasca, Illinois USA 60143-1542 Advantage Marketing, PO Box 486, Itasca, Illinois USA 60143-0486, Ph/Fax (630) 467-1332/30 E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com