Tiny Sparrow Feet

It's calm.
Too quiet.
My clear plastic bowl
serves as my bird feeder.
I don't hear the distant
scratching, shuffling
of tiny sparrow feet,
the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry
morning's lack of the big band sounds.
I walk tentatively to my patio window,
spy the balcony with detective sensitive eyes.
I witness three newly hatched
toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted
deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back.
Their childish beaks bent over elongated,
delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.

-2007-

In the Garden Where Flowers Grow

I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden of Jesus, olive oil presses, Gethsemane--
trees, flowers, fruits, vegetables didn't poison anyone there.
Passion was sweat on the ground and brow.
There weren't darts of hate, misconception or terrorism;
children on their knees five times a day brainwashed to hate.
Christ didn't lead them astray nor make them pagan pink.
There is no God apart from Allah, and Mohammed is the Prophet,
but it's Jesus who makes the garden grow with or without water.
Then and now the apples grow in my garden of forgiveness.
Figs trees grow far away where I can't reach them but believe in them.
Like the Tamarisk tree, Christ is a source of honey,
manna and wafer, a taste so sweet in the desert so dry.
You don't have to be a scholar to write poetry, religion, or understand
the Eucharist; but you need to be a real saint to know the difference.
Islam, is Judas Iscariot among your converts nose pointed toward
Mecca today?
I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden where the flowers grow.

-2007-

The Christians Arrived

Salvation Army and
the Christians arrived today,
Christmas, like every other Sunday morning
feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom,
basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots
where the cat used to lounge-
clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection.
I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless.
I forgot what it's like to be a poet of the cloth,
savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into.
I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand,
And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
Everything is nonsense when you're in a place where you don't belong.
Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering.
Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others;
feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation.
I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a 6 pack of Budweiser
with or without the Chicago Bears--it would make every Sunday a Salvation
Army holiday.
Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor
multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type,
dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian
clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved.
I feel like a fragment.
A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented.
Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers,
Christians arrived on Christmas day-
they always do every Sunday morning.
I pastor to these desires.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
The Christians arrived today.

-2007-

© Michael Lee Johnson 08

 

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, and freelance writer. He is self-employed in advertising, and selling custom promotional products.He is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. He is also nominated for the James B. Baker Award in poetry, Sam's Dot Publishing. He is a contributor in the Silver Boomers poetry anthology about aging baby boomers, by Silver Boomer Books. Michael Lee Johnson presently resides in Itasca, Illinois, United States. He lived in Canada during the Vietnam era and will be published as a contributor poet in the anthology Crossing Lines: Poets Who Came to Canada in the Vietnam War Era publication scheduled for early 2008. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, and Malaysia.

Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/. He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy, http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/ ; and Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems at, http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/. Both publications are now open for submissions. Special Note: Presently looking for an e-book, chapbook or poetry book publisher for a joint venture of poems by Michael Lee Johnson, United States, free verse; and Phillip Ellis, Australian poet, traditional verse. Manuscript can be made available on request.

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