A Poem of the Night
A poem
is a thought
of flowers
near frost,
dangling stiff,
bitten by
the vampire teeth
of late fall,
hanging desolate
near dusk
from a pot
on a patio porch
a yellow light
bulb beaming
conspicuously outward
over-chilled yellow
green glazed grass.
Snow now, the Aster
deep purple,
falls last.
A Migrant’s Empty Cup
This quiet Sonoran Desert.
The sun is going down,
touching my burnt cow
leather skin for the last time,
with death-piercing final touching.
There is no water in this migrant’s cup.
Ideate the power, the image of my soul.
The only mystery that remains.
Decamp me from this lasting hell.
Hear that Turkey Vulture cry,
carrion flesh mine—
My intelligence was once vital
now lapses into last fantasies of red
blood-covered in guilt scenarios.
My stolen Niki sneakers from Salvation Army,
Chicago, multi-colours—
traveled multi-states.
So many meaningless miles.
Ashamed, I bloat, decompose
bones to stone.
Memories: Venezuela, Chicago,
New Mexico, California, and Arizona.
Night- time Glitter
I have seen through the nighttime glitter
of wild women, the ways of their words,
the deception of their actions, the slang
of foolishness, toned down monetary voices.
Chop suey, 24-hour restaurants finish the nights.
Those late-night bars, cosmetic faces,
early morning kitty calls.
Touching the males on the high thigh
plain places as a starter plan,
chopped through the thicket
hairy brush, of privacy
reflected on my journey briefly
and thrust straight forward,
mask of fools, no jewelry
simple smile, subterfuge face of a clown.
A night journeyman working in the trade.
Lady Melissa,
all those who fell flat before you
praising your prayers, my joys.
They follow fool’s gold, the folly.
The lack of worth in the secret cave.
I have grown fond of the closed-in
tunnels where darkness resides,
moisture drips, and cave walls drop in.
Our minds, those minds, their minds, are catalysts.
I’m no longer the private collector of midnight trash.
No trophy, man of lady undies, tucked jacket pockets
on my way out.
I no longer see closed mine shafts, dreams of clouds,
those deceptive prospectors, gray beards,
gray hair, ageing, lonely, and poor.
Drop into an undeclared cave of poetic
wonder only to find iron pyrite.
Come join me, ex-lovers.
The rivers of my mind leave the gold panning behind.
Torch my guts open again with Valentine’s Day.
Confectioner’s sugar celebrates the night.
Hunter of Deep, Calinda
You, Calinda, of wood and metal, are an oyster pearl of the Greek sea.
You are a drunken disco dancer of beauty with charms around your neck.
You are a solo storyteller on the platform of ocean waves.
Your stained imprint leaves crossword puzzles
on the performance of strangers.
You only show your dynamic hula-hoop movements—
shapes, curves, when fishing boats pass by.
Calinda, you took your sensuous sex nature, barbed,
cemented in the skin of sailors’ testicles.
Then comes the morning purge.
Your salted tongue wedged in the wounds of every victim.
Then you wonder why, wonder why again.
In half silence, you cry.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 336-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication.
He is a proud Illinois State Poetry Society member, http://www.illinoispoets.org/, and an Academy of American Poets member, https://poets.org/.
His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence “Citta’ Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis” XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, “If I Were Young Again.” Remember to consider Michael Lee Johnson for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination
You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.
