michael-lee-johnson - Hello Poetry

Common Church Poem (V4) By Michael Lee Johnson Sitting here in this pew splinters in my **** I spend hours in silent prayer. I beg Jesus for a quiet life. Breathing here is so serene. Sounds of vespers, so beautiful dagger, so alone, unnoticed. You can hear Saints clear their eardrums Q-Tips cleanse mine. I hear their scandals I review mine.

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC

Common Church Poem (V4) by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL poet.

Common Church Poem (V4) By Michael Lee Johnson Sitting here in this pew splinters in my **** I spend hours in silent prayer. I beg Jesus for a quiet life. Breathing here is so serene. Sounds of vespers, so beautiful dagger, so alone, unnoticed. You can hear Saints clear their eardrums Q-Tips cleanse mine. I hear their scandals I review mine.

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Winter tapping hollow maple tree trunk- a four month visitor about to move in unload his messy clothing, be windy about it- bark is grayish white as coming night with snow fragments the seasons. The chill of frost lays a deceitful blanket over the courtyard greens and coats a ghostly white mist over reddish gold maple leaves widely spaced teeth- you can hear them clicking like false teeth or chattering like chipmunks threatened in a distant burrow. The maple 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.

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Jan 30, 2016

Jan 30, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC

Maple Tree Night and Snowy Visitors (V4) by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL.

Winter tapping hollow maple tree trunk- a four month visitor about to move in unload his messy clothing, be windy about it- bark is grayish white as coming night with snow fragments the seasons. The chill of frost lays a deceitful blanket over the courtyard greens and coats a ghostly white mist over reddish gold maple leaves widely spaced teeth- you can hear them clicking like false teeth or chattering like chipmunks threatened in a distant burrow. The maple 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.

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The drifter in the room is a stranger, he is crazy, is Bigfoot with deer moccasins on− monster of condominium rooms and dreams. The drifter in this room used to be my friend. He spoke straight sentences, they did not sound like poetry- reverberated like a narrative, special lines good a few bad, or stories being unwound by the tongue of a gentleman, lip service, juggler of simple words to children. The night is a dark believer in drifters, they sound sober, affairs with the wind, the 3 A.M. honking of the Metro trains. Everything sleeps with a love, a nightmare at night. The drifter.

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Jan 29, 2016

Jan 29, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC

The Drifter, by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL

The drifter in the room is a stranger, he is crazy, is Bigfoot with deer moccasins on− monster of condominium rooms and dreams. The drifter in this room used to be my friend. He spoke straight sentences, they did not sound like poetry- reverberated like a narrative, special lines good a few bad, or stories being unwound by the tongue of a gentleman, lip service, juggler of simple words to children. The night is a dark believer in drifters, they sound sober, affairs with the wind, the 3 A.M. honking of the Metro trains. Everything sleeps with a love, a nightmare at night. The drifter.

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