MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

THE SEASONS AND THE SLANTS (V2)

I live my life inside my patio window.

It’s here, at my business desk I slip

into my own warm pajamas and slippers-

seek Jesus, come to terms

with my own cross and brittle conditions.

Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,

the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves

go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,

behind willow tree bare limb branches-

they lose their faces in somber hue.

Their voices at night abbreviate

and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.

With this poetic mind, no one cares

about the seasons and the slants

the wind or its echoes.

SUNDOWN FALL (V2)

Fall, everything is turning yellow and golden.

No wind, Indian summer, bright day,

wind charms with Indian enchantment,

last brides marry before first snowfall,

grass growth slows down, retreats,

bushes cut back with chills, retreats,

haven of the winter grows legs, strong,

learns baby steps, pushes itself

up slowly against my patio door, freezes,

and says, “soon, soon, Spring I’ll be there.”

Winter is sweeping up what is left of fall,

making room for shorter day's longer nights.

I hear the echoes of the change of seasons,

until next sundown sunflowers grow.

CALIFORNIA SUMMER

Coastal warm breeze

off Santa Monica, California

the sun turns salt

shaker upside down

and it rains white smog, humid mist.

No thunder, no lightening,

nothing else to do

except sashay

forward into liquid

and swim

into eternal days

like this.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON