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

Had I listened as the chickadee sang of winter's coming, I would have let my line stay cast a bit longer on those lazy summer days, or netted a few more salmon in the cold spring waters. But I was mustered in the deck of love's cards, feeling my own drizzle within lake shimmer and skies as blue as Egyptian Lapis.

Oh she was a beauty, all tanned and tall, red and black wool shirt, those short denim shorts and hiking boots that made her hips lift and fall just a bit more than required. I often wonder if she knew – probably. She was a smart cat.

You got your pocket full of ten-dollar words,
all precise and proper,
way too educated for a man like me ...

except;
I can see the want-to in your look,
the squirm in your seat,
where the shiver-me-here
is apparent ...

and me;
unable to contain myself,
the whisper of words is all that's left ...
I want you

“When my pain is bleak
And relief is fleeing
My thoughts become weak
With recklessness”

“Agony brings infamy
To my heart of pain
And the peace of Christ
Excels my thought of rashness”

“And meds for coping
Lessens my sadness
Lower my woes
Of high duress”

“And peace from within
Derived from up high
Quiet my thoughts
Of suicide”

There are times when you say no,
when long hours of work and fatigue
conspire to take away your passion,
negating all desires you have for me.

These are days frustrating,
hapless interludes in busy lives
neither patience nor acceptance
can lighten or assuage,

For then my need is hurtful
and desire unrequited, this passion
I have for you as far from
being fulfilled as it can ever be,

The trees are so active today
fanning the air and clouds around
as if they are all in a fray
and throwing pine cones to the ground

All the birds must prove their skill
at landing on the limbs which sway
whether on ridge or tiny rill
earning hazardous flight pay

The air is filled with pollen's haze
as tree pods release their loads
which will settle down for days
on ground, cars and even toads

if i were there
i would tell you

winter is facing up
to its past mistakes

no rain
turned to
damp meadows with
muddied hooves

if you were here
you would say

i've never lived
a discontented season
but you are not shakespeare
and i am not grieving

a death i did not feel

past mistakes find themselves
buried like tall oaks
we can chop them down
but the roots live

rotting where we cannot see them

I returned home
on Palm Sunday
to find knockout roses
behind my brick mailbox
parading their first blossoms of spring.

I found candytuft
faded to green,
saving scattered sprinkles of white
for me to view one more day.

Fallen pink petals of dogwood trees
fluttered through a whimsical ballet
to entertain me on their ballroom floor
of Kentucky bluegrass.

awake
morning chilled breath
the birds are talking
the ice is waiting

this sky the chalk silver
horse that stands
and the hundred silence
miles of endurance

asleep
dreamland marionette
tap heel light on strings
sit and tell
the gruelling past
packed in trunks of histories

there are
motions of faces
fixed in perceptions
like doorshadowed
visitors

and paces of hunger
scratch prayer messages
on earthen dust page

I've been wondering
if you still see me
in everything Australian

I remember how
you shopped for shrubs
to put in your back garden

and the day
you cornered that poor girl
at the office meeting
just to hear her accent

do our trees still grow
in the dry breath of
California air

or

have they died
fighting for life
between
the weeds of us