The stream (all workshops)
17th April 2011 MALLORCA. "A walk into heaven."
And it did stay away, the rain? It did, and the great globe of fire spun round and round making the heat dither off our skins and colour them brown, I go brown not red luckily but perhaps that is because I don't lie in it all day.
Sucking the life out
of all you touch
they are but stepping stones
To you they don't mean
much.
You're so high
on yourself
you don't see me
getting close
So self absorded
Grinning,
not seeing what's about
to strike home
The payment of one life
justifies the sinning
There will be smiles
not one tear
When a fist full of dirt
is dropped upon
the fertile earth
There's a full moon rising slow tonight
in the east behind the distant trees
flooding the world with its cool clear light
casting shifting shadows in the breeze.
Diurnal life is staying active now
throughout a night that will not know the dark.
From running deer to a still grazing cow
and gray squirrels raiding in the park.
Perhaps the glow from the spring full moon
foretells the coming of the spotted fawns
and prods coyotes to sing their sad tune
throughout the night 'til the break of dawn.
Born in the wild
Learning to survive
Before he was weaned
Cold, calculating eyes
Set upon the prey
Brindled fur
Stood on the edge of anticipation
Methodical stalking
Barely a rustle of leaves
The breeze carries a scent
Of live food afoot
Head lifts
Toward the full moon
A howl splits
The silence of the night
The hunt has begun
(new)
Screaming at the darkness
folded, spindled and mutilated
cast upon jagged rocks and
crushed by waves
of indecision
gales of laughter laced with
scattered showers of sadness
and lashed by tongues
of derision,
that lies rotting
in fields of neglect
tempered in the cold
forged in searing heat
the brittle frost of loneliness
ripping at unprotected
eyes of despair
we came together
more like a dragonfly
with torn wings,
essentially broken
yet able to find colors,
in a world, weakened with grays
i am still Melbourne
tied and bound,
unwashed city with
fewer clean spaces
than you remember
the sacrificial pot,
boiled and scrubbed,
we dipped toes in
and painted references
to holy light
from the twilight of stars
or it was the telescope
pointed into the universe,
from your room,
giving me astral
predictions
The long wait,
can not leave this place
to far in between
how much more
can I take,
I can hear
Mr. Jones knocking
at my door
hands begin to shake
is there no escape
Blood pulsating
need screaming
in my head
YES, YES, yes,
NO!!
where is the out
what must I do
to be rid of this burden
who goes by the name
of Mr. Jones
"body aching,
have the shakes
Jones coming down"
.
dwelling:
a shady hovel
furnished:
single bed
orange crate
and a cardboard box
a dimwicked porch lamp
foretelling
no solicitors of friendship
left alone
sparring with thoughts
...about thought
from mute books
that can never take back their words
stalking
and hounding
their cagy ways
until "gotcha, you slickery little weasels
snagged by your own glibby tales"
a deep breath ensues
a soothing sigh of relief
the mystery is still unresolved
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.
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