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I Know From my Bed

Sometimes I feel
like a sad sack-
a worn out old man
with clown facial wrinkles.
I know when I reflect,
stare out my window
at the snow falling
from my bed,
my back to yours,
reflecting on my pain-
ignoring yours-
I isolate your love,
lose your touch
to another-
forgetting,
it is our bed,
not mine,
that I lie in.

-1999-

Leaves in December
By Michael Lee Johnson

Leaves, a few stragglers in
December, just before Christmas,
some nailed down crabby
to ground frost,
some crackled by the bite
of nasty wind tones.

Some saved from the matchstick
that failed to light.
Some saved from the rake
by a forgetful gardener.

For these few freedom dancers
left to struggle with the bitterness:
wind dancers
wind dancers
move your frigid
bodies shaking like icicles
hovering but a jiffy in sky,
kind of sympathetic to the seasons,
reluctant to permanently go,
rustic, not much time more to play.

-2007-

Hookers on Archer Avenue
By Michael Lee Johnson (Version 3)

Late evening, early morning,
I search the night for whores,
young, bloody with desire.
Night streets are silent streets
except for hookers and their Johns.
One wants the dart of groins
the other green eyes in dollar
sacred treasures
snatch the wallet, a consecrated craft.
Both hit the streets quickly
satisfy needs quickly.

I’m an old buck now rich with memories
more than movement, still talk, take porn shots,
with a peeking eye, snoop around
department store corners,
and dumpy old alleyways.
My hair is gray, my teeth eroding,
thoughts toward prayer
A.M. Catholic Mass,
then off in early morning
to the mailbox, a lethargic walk,
I pick up my social security check
comforts my needs.

Evening settles into bed time
with a western romance novel,
ambushes, excitement,
old transgressions stretch
and relax.

No desires, homage
to the day, to the night.

-2010-

Fly Wings
By Michael Lee Johnson

Black wings
landing on unwanted
space, like the devil
in bad spots that itch
fly swatter hammers,
summer fly body parts splatter
blood crucifixion red,
blood stains splat against the kitchen wall.
Blood crucifixion red
Dead? Sacrifice?
Or does Jesus call, resurrect all?
Black wings.

-2007-

Cold Gray
By Michael Lee Johnson

Below the clouds
forming in my eyes,
your soft eyes,
delicate as silk warm words,
used to support the love I held for you.

Cold, now gray, the sea tide
inside turns to poignant foam
upside down, separates-
only ghosts now live between us.

Yet, dream like, fortune-teller,
bearing no relation to reality-
my heart is beyond the sea now.
A relaxing breeze sweeps
across the flat surface of me.
I write this poem to you
neglectfully sacrificing our love.
I leave big impressions
with a terrible hush inside.
Gray bones now bleach with memories,
I’m a solitary figure standing
here, alone, along the shoreline.

-2007-

Style / type: 
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Comments

Welcome to neopoet I think. this is some introduction. I had to stop reading before I got to the poem. then I scrolled down to leave a comment and i thought there wasn't a comment box it was like a train pulling into the station with so many cars that you thought it would never end,
I'll come back to this and read the poem.
well welcome to neopoet the last stop on this train. Hahaha!
Eddie C.

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

Any time a poem could have been written by Frost, there's not much more to say. Welcome to the site.............scribbler

Welcome to Neopoet.
I enjoyed your poems very much.
However, the personal stuff proceeding them is better suited to your "My account" area, where there is space provided for such things.

Respectfully, Jim

"Laws and Rules don't kill freedom: narrow-minded intolerance does" - Race-9togo

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Race_9togo

I've edited your poem -- we are welcome to post links to your other work in your profile, but not in the poem itself.

Welcome to Neopoet!

Thank you so much, now I see a poem Hahahaha1

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

I read them all, but in the end they seem to run into each other, Some are very good, others read like reading some-ones diary.
I have to say that those I did like had great imagery.
To many on one page for me,

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

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