A mystery unsolved,
told in missives of blood.
From Hell he stalked
on clandestine nights,
in the hush of silent streets.
The bane of proscribed escorts,
violator of sultry prey.
With surgical mutilation,
victims splayed unhidden;
guttural lacerations
with innards to behold.
A savage aspiration,
the impetus of death.
Remembered for the carnage
and a letter to the law.
Forever—
in history he sleeps…
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Once a child
And once a girl,
Innocence still made
Its claim.
To dream
Like a child,
Like an angel,
Like a fawn.
To see the clouds
And feel the rain.
Each memory is
Like a precious fragment
Of fallen, gilded gold.
You would spread them
As little tokens
Across a fanciful map.
Each marked a place
To dream of,
Each mark a wish,
Each spot a hope.
Young you were
And never young again.
A brief reveille
Before the autumn
Before the chill.
A brief repast
Before the grace.
Do we still believe in miracles?
Do we still believe in ourselves,
that maybe we are meant
to do something than just live
an ordinary life,
and all the struggle that we have endured
was to lead us to that pivotal moment?
What if there was another 9/11?
What if there was another US Airways Flight 1549?
Would we be another Sully,
or would politics and race play a bitter card
in the division of our lives?
Would we watch the city burn
or listen to their screams die?
Would we say,
“They were not one of us?”
This was a fear that gripped me tight
as the news bled into the passing days,
but then Hurricane Harvey hit.
And despite all our differences,
all our hate,
a miracle happened.
We forgot the bullshit,
and heroes rose
Death is a bitch and a whore
comes with hat on or off,
Jewish, Christian or lover years ago called Nancy.
Death is a passport, a left behind baggage note.
My leverage sinks, I see you pass human.
These my fears, your fright, being broke, old-royalties stole Suzanne.
Now branches, extended limbs, point outward nowhere-
doors Montreal collapse tomb, dance with me,
end perfume love, a few dead flowers.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 33 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. He has been nominated 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 and 2 nominations Best of the Net 2016 and 2017. He also has 134 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762
and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089
Toughness lightens your voluptuous jaws
with monstrous hunger
to engulf human edifice of excellent creation .
How
could you maintain silky softness behind your stony of
ruthlessness ?
The sky above watches with tears of reprimanding
scolds,
your crafty games you play to toy with the flimsy effort of
human beings-
helpless puppet to the capricious whims of your
restless nature .
Molten saps of petrified dynasties running
through your crevices –
whisper the incantation to revive the
dormant fossils awaiting for quenching its thirst for solar
radiation .
Your crude cajoling for witnessing human molestation
by your retinue ,
confer wooing suffering to earthly beings .
Poets and writers invest
on your infatuating aspects to reap golden crops .
You are a menacing medley of both creation and annihilation.
Your bridal attraction , your enchanting enigma
allure people to attend the
feasting ceremony you arrange to trap your victims .
The sky scolds
you wheedlingly for your crafty devices to caress creatures
to devilish death .
You muse mockingly at the shedding of
crocodile’s tears of the sky for the dying earth .
The demons that haunt me
Linger in my dark to flaunt me.
Speaking in whispers to taunt me.
Eating my life from within to gaunt me.
From their souls I can not hide.
I have lost myself with them inside.
All I have left are the memories those who have died.
“ If only I could have helped them be safe!
From my bad self that waits inside!”
“You are so weak and pathetic you fool!
You know you can not stop me!”
“Why can’t you leave me alone?
And take your darkest deeds and thoughts away!”
“Such a whining child, no back bone!
I have wonderful plans and I so enjoy my craft!”
I smile when they begged and cried.
I can not stop what I need to do.
My hands are guided to see it all through.
I laughed as their lives began to bleed and unscrew.
I am looking for another to play with, could it be you?
I despised all the human greedy desires and bloated vanity.
You might think I am crazy
Or that I live in a world full of insanity.
But that is okay with me
Because I am your worst fear.
A screaming image you can not escape from.
Because I am what your nightmares are made of.
The bogeyman that visits you in the dark.
The shadow that always seems to follow you.
Or the whispering voice behind you.
Yes, I am all of these things and much, much more.
You see, I am your monster!
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