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 Escape Pod

It was the silence I feared;

thick and oily and black as ink.

It embraced me like a lover,

stroking my downy cheek.

 

The road was yards away,

but I couldn’t hear the traffic.

Everything sounded white.

The cars; the wind; the havoc.

 

I saw only the car,

upside down, wheels spinning;

a helpless turtle belching smoke.

My horror was just beginning.

 

It was the blood that drew me on.

A beacon of fear.

I came upon her with burglar’s feet

and knelt so very near.

 

I did not know

she lay dying.

I saw tears.

She was crying.

 

I took her hand.

She took mine.

She said, “please don’t leave”.

I replied in kind.

 

I watched her eyes.

They opened wide.

Her soul escaped,

somewhere outside.

 

Her hand went limp.

So did mine.

She lay still.

I kept crying.

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.

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!!!!!!

 

Being Beautiful

It must be quite the burden

being beautiful and fair.

Oh, the jealousy it must invoke

compounding your despair.

 

I get it.

I think I understand.

Beauty is a ball

every woman would attend.

 

But, few ever get invited.

They’re just waiting in the wings,

plotting to tear you down

and make you feel their jealous sting.

 

Some will crash the ball,

wearing masks and being petty,

but they’re truly ugly creatures

with hearts colder than a yeti.

 

They’re cruel to other women,

enslaving men they may have fooled.

They’re redefining what you are,

transforming beauty into a tool.

 

The men are worse I fear.

They see your beauty as a cliff

to be climbed and conquered

or unwrapped like christmas gifts.

 

Though you wish they’d see beyond it,

I can tell by your troubled sighs.

The greatest problem in your life

are the men craving what’s between your thighs.

 

So, I understand why you are jaded.

Why you shroud yourself in ice.

It’s because you think I’m latest man

to come to you with lies.

 

When I tell you that you’re beautiful,

it’s because I want to hold your hand

and learn the little secrets

you hide from the race of man.

 

You’re not a unicorn.

You’re a woman made flesh.

Though your beauty feels like magic,

it haunts you half to death.

 

You’re your own worst problem–

A woman nobody knows–

because the only reason one might want to

is for the beauty beneath your clothes.

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.

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.

Carrying On

I tried to carry the bucket of milk

down the path leading from the barn.

My little arms were shaking

and the milk I spilled was warm.

 

The milk was for today.

Yesterday, I gathered eggs.

I broke a few of them

splattering them on my legs.

 

Tomorrow, I’ll carry a baby.

I’ll hold her in these arms.

I hope I’m strong enough by then

to protect her from any harm.

I Call Mother

I was a child born

and never wondered at my start.

I didn’t imagine Heaven

or fear a devil’s dart.

 

I was but a toddler

when first I wondered “where from.”

I didn’t imagine a deity.

I just wondered “where from we come.”

 

My sister dear, in all her grace,

told me of a place called Eden.

It was a garden lost in the depths of lore

that could be found only when one was reading.

 

My mother was my maker,

and I knew the eyes of God,

but then, I learned of Eden.

My life suddenly became so odd.

 

She was a thing–

an oven that Heaven used

to create the newest sinner

the Devil would abuse.

 

In desperate hours,

why did I call for mother

instead of shouting out

for my unseen nameless creator?

 

Because, my creator had a name.

I’ve known it since my birth.

She used to hold me in her arms,

but now she’s buried in the earth.

Finding Harmony

I used to hold my breathe,

freezing motionless as death

to make the candle flame stand still.

 

I would fight the urge to blink

and sip air but never drink

in hope of finding harmony with the flame.

 

Oxygen deprived,

I would surrender to stay alive

and watch the wicked fire dance.

 

The shadows on the wall

held my befuddled mind in thrall

as I  imagined the contest being waged.

 

Were those shadows the Devil’s cloak

that the light dearly fought to soak,

or was it simply a contest of states.

 

I didn’t really know.

I just held my breathe to stop the flow

and waited for the flame to harmonize.

 

For a brief moment in time,

I was silent as a mime,

and my moment had meaning.

 

Then, it occured to me,

a precious moment of lucidity.

We find harmony after every breathe.

 

The harder we breath,

the more chaos we seed.

It takes longer for the flame to stand still.

 

But in a life of ten thousand peaceful breathes,

I find comfort before my death,

experiencing ten thousand and one moments of harmony.