The Spider Inside Her

The broken spider
spins webs inside her,
laboring with broken legs.
The web weaves crooked,
so her lies sound stupid;
a broken spider can still lay eggs.

And, lay them it does
before it curls into dust
and sifts into the folds of her brain.
Where in the warmth of her throat,
a spider sack grows,
spilling spiders like black chalky rain.

She chokes on their cancer,
while they bite and harass her,
vomiting black clouds of ballooning arachnids.
She coughs into the wind,
spraying them like phlegm;
they’ll find homes in the brains of her kids.

–Michael Johnson

A Juggernaut Bride

Don’t think it a maybe that the baby is crying
or the discontent whisper is just a former wife sighing.
I march from my home like a soldier to work.
There’s not enough dollars.
I’m living in squalor
but financing a lifestyle where I’m labeled a jerk.

I’ve broken my knuckles
cut open my flesh
while hefting the houses of whores.
I charge them a quarter
for the things that I porter
and return home just as broke and as poor.

But, each day I go back
bruised blue and bruised black
for the compromised pay of a dime.
I hang my head low.
and stare at my toes
then march home like a wandering rhyme.

Something must give
if I’m ever to live;
I just want some more time with my kid.
But, the ex-wife is shouting.
Her payment she’s doubting.
In the interim, she’s flipping her lid

God damn it, I’m trying.
Stop your harping and crying.
The check will arrive on the first.
Are you really here fearing
I’ll fail in my rearing
of the child we conceived and you birthed?

I’m only a man
with sore muscles and hands
doing the best job I can.
Do you know what it takes?
Do know what’s at stake?
Am I to sift gold from sand?

I won’t fail our daughter.
It’s the lessons I taught her–
lessons on how one can thrive.
I taught her to fight.
I taught her to write.
I taught the kid how to survive.

By the time that I’m done,
she could kill with her thumb
and describe it in tear-jerking prose.
She’ll have ethics and morals
and know how to quarrel.
She’ll be as dangerous an Antarctic snow.

She’ll glide like winter wind
with eyes that see sin
and the halos that people conceal.
She’ll be Amazonian inside.
She’ll be a juggernaut bride.
And, she’ll change the world more than the wheel.

–Michael Johnson

After the Flames

She was no predator.
I let her
do what whiskey did with whinos–
tear holes in our lives
so large you could drive a freaking truck thru

I wrote odes and lymrics to dreams of vengeance,
acidic words meant to give offense,
where stale joy came from artificial sunshine.
The fire I felt
burned and feels sublime.

Now years, I find I’m lonely.
Comforted by none who seem to know me,
realizing I’ve been waxing wicked
about a woman
I shared a kid with.

Now that her world is finally tumbling
with her begging and quietly crumbling,
I wonder at my marshaling malice.
Did my fury
ruin Wonderland for Alice?

I don’t know,
I enjoyed the show though.
I feel sorrow that my prediction–
that she’d taste ash and ruin–
has finally found fruition.

My anger realized autumn.
The fuel that fed it has found its bottom,
and in the silence I hear my echo
smell old smoke
and feel some sorrow.

The predator, I think was me,
and I’ve eaten my last feast.
I’ll probably build her back her Rome,
because, now that the fire is out,
I find myself with too much stone.

— Michael Johnson

The Farmer’s Rose

No longer does Demeter

kiss the ground beneath my feet.

Too many years of hosting corn

had left the garden leeched.

 

It is useless clay beneath me;

a field of plough-cracked stone.

But once, it was a bountiful garden

sustaining my family home.

 

As a child, I rode the plough

my father pulled about

and dug my toes in rich dark soil

doing my best to just help out.

 

I spent my summers in the corn

playing at hide and seek,

listening to laughter amongst the rows

with pollen-dusted cheeks.

 

But now, the seasons turned

on this beloved stretch of land.

It will never again know laughter

or the touch of a ploughman’s hand.

 

It’s become nothing but a bridge

connecting our home and barn

one must carefully choose to cross

lest the thorns inflict them harm.

 

Most seasons, I spare it not a glance.

Here, the cocklebur reigns.

The ropey weeds and blackberry briars,

in concert, this ground reclaimed.

 

I mourn the loss of the enchanted garden

where my siblings and I came to play,

but a silver-lining, if one exist,

is how nature marked the grave.

 

The Morning Glory is mourning glory.

Watch how the blossomed serpent grows.

It winds and twines and kisses our eyes,

and to the sky, the Farmer’s Rose doth go.

Forests of Glass

The trees are hunkered down

with ice upon their boughs.

The sky is grey as fishing lead,

and the Winter wind blows south.

 

The limbs of the Weeping Willow

fan out like a bridal train

as the willowy wands that dangle

give way beneath the strain.

 

For beneath the gloomy skies,

the trees are dark and cold.

The ice encases limb and leaf

of trees both young and old.

 

The blackbirds come to test the limbs;

the crow and ravens black.

Sometimes the tree limbs hold the weight

but other times they–CRACK!

 

I walk among the sparkling trees

easily imagining they are glass.

Each limb is a beautiful figurine

some blower has thought to craft.

 

When the skies turn blue once more,

the sun will rise above the rim.

And, the frozen forests will sing with light

and the blue birds will add their hymn.

Baylee’s Christmas Song (Lyrics)

Ring-a-ling.

Ring-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells rings?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

Ring-a-ling.

Ding-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

Snowflakes falling on the sill.

Riding sleds down giant hills.

Nutcrackers all in a row.

Marshmallows in my hot cocoa.

 

Tallest Christmas tree I’ve seen.

Decking halls in red and green.

Place a star upon the tree.

Sing a carol with family.

 

Ring-a-ling.

Ring-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

Ring-a-ling.

Ding-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

Sing a loud a joyous tune.

Santa Claus is coming soon.

Bringing toys for girls and boys

Lift your voice . . .LET’S MAKE SOME NOISE!

 

Oh, Christmas bells on Christmas boughs.

Stockings hung from mantle shelves.

Roasting goose and pumpkin pie.

Mistletoe hung good and high.

 

Ring the bells!

 

Presents laid beneath the tree.

Turkey roasted for our feast.

Hanging bells on Christmas wreaths.

Has anyone seen grandma’s teeth?

 

Ring-a-ling.

Ring-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

MAKE SOME NOISE!

 

Ring-a-ling.

Ding-a-ling.

 

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

Can’t you hear the bells ring?

 

Riding sleds with stocking heads.

Eating nuts and pumpkin bread.

Burning logs and drinking nog.

Tying bows on the family dog.

 

Mistletoe and Ho. Ho. Ho’s.

Ice cream made from last night’s snow.

Garlands hung above the stair.

Grandpa made it one more year.

 

HOORAY!

 

Ring the Bells!

 

Here comes Santa in his sleigh.

 

Ring the Bells!

I hope he doesn’t lose his way.

 

Ring the Bells!

 

Down the chimneys everywhere.

 

Ring the Bells!!

 

I hope I don’t get underwear.

 

Ring the Bells!

Ring the Bells!

Ring the Bells!

Ring the Bells!

RING THE BELLS!!!

 

Papa got a Magnavox.

Children played inside the box.

Mama got a microwave.

Now our papa’s going to pay.

 

Ring a ling.

Ring a ling.

 

Sister got her Barbie house.

Kitty got a wind up mouse.

The best gift yet was all for me.

Christmas with my family.

 

Ring the bells!

Ring the bells!

 

Ring the bells and have a very merry Christmas.

 

RING THE BELLS!!!!!!

 

Proof?

It was I who woke that night

while the October rain was falling,

crashing against my panes;

the autumn storms come calling.

 

Burrowed in my blankets;

never caring of its fury;

let it mangle the makings of man

as it sweeps across Missouri.

 

The oak outside my walls

beat my roof in rage,

while the wild winds tried to peel

the shingles from my cage.

 

I closed my eyes to sleep,

but the roar was inside my room,

thundering like a mother’s heart

through her pregnant womb.

 

I cracked an eye to see,  

imagining only to see my pillow,

but instead, I saw the giant’s eye

peering through my window.

 

Lighting flashed just then;

my heart fluttering like a fly.

From my pillowed fort,

I saw anger in the sky.

 

The lighting stabbed the earth,

ending in globes of light;

a curtain of holy fire

banishing the night.

 

Was this judgment?

I asked for proof.

Is this nature

or God knocking on my roof?

Romeo’s Reward

Why do you do

this thing to me,

showing me grace

with complexity?

 

Why can’t we pair

by nature’s law

and disregard

our human flaws.

 

Why can’t you peer

into my soul

and see the beauty

and not the troll.

 

Some men crave

power, treasure, and wealth.

Some are merely content

to have their health.

 

But, I need more.

like a hand to hold

and a heart to warm

when life grows cold.

 

I need someone to mourn me

when life exacts its toll;

to argue with God

for the sake of my soul.

 

So why do you do

this thing to me

and reward my efforts

with apathy.

Autumn

I loved fireworks as a child

from the moment they were lit,

watching the burning fuse

inches from where I’d sit.

 

Summer does this to the trees

when the season is old,

turning the motley walnuts

into a waterfall of gold.

 

They’re always the first to fall

before the other leaves can turn;

Summer lit the fuse

and into Autumn it would burn.

 

The burning fuse won’t rest

it races through the trees,

dropping the dogwood’s jacket

before entering the sea of leaves.

 

The hickory’s are rich

turning yellow, red, and brown

followed by the elder

whose leaves quickly touch the ground.

 

The maple’s glow like neon,

bursting brilliant against the sky;

so much beauty in one place

can only make the poets cry.

 

The reds and russets

of the mighty splendid oak

curl and drop away

as autumn throws off summer’s yoke.

 

The fireworks bursts,

taking longer than a night.

And when the sparks have finally settled,

winter snuffs out autumn’s light.

Zombie

The queerest thing I know

is living without a soul

and reading the many faces

of those with inner glow.

 

We soulless shuffle ’round

seeing nothing as profound.

We see with marble eyes

and smile with iron frowns.

 

One might consider us vampiric

due to Stoker’s verse.

We’re incapable of seeing our reflection

in the eyes of those observed.

 

The queerest thing to date

is the saddest thing of note,

that dying a living death

robs the world of hope.