Poetry

March 7, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

I Tell Nikki’s Short Cat Story Dreams

 

 

I know my cat is messed up when she sticks her paws in a catnip bowl loaded.

This is where science fiction begins and ancient history becomes modern poetry.

She dreams of stale fish munchies, dead frogs and

string beans dipped in fennel seeds on a shish kebab stick.

She scratches my dirty laundry bag to ward off evil spirits.

In catnip vision, she supports me in her hate of belly rubs.

Flying banner in an open vacated cat field night, fragments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I Die

 

 

When I die

not if I die

library of congress

ISSN, ISBN,

small press

will close out my memory card

close out my small condominium unit

rent it out. Those unfinished poems,

date undated, tossed out with trash.

My tower computer, obsolete

to miniature handheld devices.

My tower is a small penis that cannot get up.

Skyscrapers are dwarfs.

They draw a period to their doorstep.

In my grave cylinder beneath willow tree earth

complete poems go, illusive, informative

no big words:

When I die

not if I die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Graying in My Life

 

 

Graying in

my life

growing old

like a stagnant

bucket of

rain water with moss

floating on top-

Oh, it’s not such

a bad deal,

except when

loneliness

catches you

chilled in the

middle of a sentence

by yourself-

ticking away

like an old grandfather clock,

hands stretched straight in the air

striking midnight

like a final

prayer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Headlights Tossed Forward

 

 

I live in a sketched out rusty truck world

alarm clock on the dashboard legs stretched out.

I am a coffee shop manager whores found on the road

hitch hiking to their next adventure.

My world is colored gray with half tones.

My tires are whitewalls half-flat and half rolling.

My world revolves around travels poverty my poems.

I cannot see forward the storms brewing adventures in my eyes.

Words flip-flop right to left window flapping in frozen fog.

The pace of winter nights confuses me.

I travel most of these black tar roads fender damaged, alone.

All earthly goods, tees and sweatshirts, old memories stuffed

in the back, old black quarter ton truck.

Begin, and end, headlights tossed forward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites.  Author’s website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN:  978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day and Chicago Poems. He also has over 83 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.

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