"itasca" poems
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.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
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.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
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.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
“This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe….?”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
Among
the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
We stay in a log cabin built by men displaced by the Great Depression;
Who would have said that it was not great at all.
Losing their pride, then earning it back again.
Here we stay,
Provided a place by those men of the New Deal
Those builders who poured out their labor, their time,
Their thoughts, their words among themselves;
And they, I think, must stay here, too.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC