My Life
My life began
with a skeleton
with a smile and
bubbling eyes
in my garden of
dandelions.
Everything else
fell off the edge,
a jigsaw puzzle
piece cut in half.
When young, I
pressed
against my
mother’s breast,
but youthful
memories fell short.
I tried at 8 to
kiss my father,
but he was a
welder, fox hunter,
coon hunter, and
voyeuristic man.
My young life
was a mixture
of black, white,
dark dreams,
and mellow
yellow sun bright hopes.
Rewind, sunshine
was a stranger
in dandelion
fields,
shadows in my
eyes.
I grabbed my
injured legs
leap forward
into the future.
I’m now a
vitamin C boy
it keeps me
immured
from catching
colds or Covid-19.
Everything now
still leaks, in parts,
but I press
forward.
Jesus And How
He Must Have
Felt (V3)
Staggering out
Wee-Willy's
dumpy dive bar,
droopy eyes,
my feelings
desensitizing,
confusing my
avocado fart,
at 3:20 a.m.,
with last night
splash on Brut
aftershave.
Whispering to my
outcast
self-sounding is
more like pending death.
My body
detaching from myself,
numbed by
winter's fingers.
I creak up these
outside stairs
to my apartment
after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco's
Windsor Castle
London Dry
Gin—on the rocks.
I thought of
Jesus
how He must have
felt
during His
resurrection
dragging His
holy body
up that endless
stairwell
spiraling toward
heaven.
Most Poems
Most poems are
pounded out
in emotional
flesh, sometimes
physical skin
scalped feelings.
It’s a Jesus
hanging on a cross
a Mary kneeling
at the bottom
not knotted in love
but roped,
a blade of a
bowie knife
heavenward.
I look for the
kicker line
the close at the
bottom
seek a public
poetry forum
to cheer my
aspirations on.
I hear those
faraway voices
carrying my life
away-
a retreat into
insanity.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
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