This version
is tacitly the best.
I am in the morning sun
when the artist arrives.
My pair of pajamas
sleep in frozen still patterns.
I turn my face oriental with my poems.
Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out
light pink to white, brevity, for a short
time then walk alone, then die.
I hear the sound of notes in my ears
approaching on silent footprints.
I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely
meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette
toss garlands, toss racy clothing,
abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors.
I leave all sinful shadows behind.
But I am of this world, not out of this world.
I swear way too much and pray too little.
The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match.
Crack and smack a curse—
twigs break silence.
Crows (V2)
Tired of hunger
tired of emptiness
late February winter snow—
crow claws locked in
on my condo balcony
steel railings.
Their desperate eyes
focus in on my green eye
sockets—
their search begins,
I go to bed, no ruffled feathers showing—
their imaginary dreams of green—
black wings fly flapping—
the hunt, scavengers, over barren fields—
shadows in the way
now late August
summer sun
bright yellow
turning orange—
hard corn.
is tacitly the best.
I am in the morning sun
when the artist arrives.
My pair of pajamas
sleep in frozen still patterns.
I turn my face oriental with my poems.
Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out
light pink to white, brevity, for a short
time then walk alone, then die.
I hear the sound of notes in my ears
approaching on silent footprints.
I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely
meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette
toss garlands, toss racy clothing,
abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors.
I leave all sinful shadows behind.
But I am of this world, not out of this world.
I swear way too much and pray too little.
The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match.
Crack and smack a curse—
twigs break silence.
Crows (V2)
Tired of hunger
tired of emptiness
late February winter snow—
crow claws locked in
on my condo balcony
steel railings.
Their desperate eyes
focus in on my green eye
sockets—
their search begins,
I go to bed, no ruffled feathers showing—
their imaginary dreams of green—
black wings fly flapping—
the hunt, scavengers, over barren fields—
shadows in the way
now late August
summer sun
bright yellow
turning orange—
hard corn.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 300 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.