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A lamppost named Mark: pt1.2

Sunday, June 18th, 2017

Read full Lamppost Poem, in order

 

I.

Lamppost lost in vast shadowy elsewhere,

turns down a shallow, unknowable road,

where names cost a smile, a drink buys a kiss,

and lights turn on only in

darkness.

How many eyes pass, from then until now,

in the blinking of a time.

 

“Why, hello, pretty Signpost.

You must have a name as warm as your face.

Say again, Signpost? 

  You haven’t a voice?

Then lovely Signpost, Signpost love,

let me communicate love with a kiss. 

But what do I see?  No lips for a kiss?

Then Signpost of beauty,

Signpost of grace,

let us gaze through failing vision,

for in eyes we have infinite space.

You haven’t even a single eye?”

Serial composition cursed whom?

 

Born half-blind, with two good legs, illuminating

the darkness wherever he wanders,

One shadow of light against the dark, casting

shadows of dark against the light.

 

So every moon rise recalls the orchid eyes

of the beautiful Anna Signpost;

and every midnight hour, soaked in star showers,

deeper wades the luminous Lamppost;

till deep in his dreams, where a sea of sand gleams,

she speaks to him, speaks to him, volumes and reams,

in his dreams by the sandy sea—

in his solitude down by the sea.

 

 

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A lamppost named Mark: pt. 0.

Friday, June 9th, 2017

read the full lamppost poem, in order

O.

Sideways eights,

upside down sevens,

forward arrows,

evolutionary rocks:

perhaps the lamppost’s name

was Mark.

But many that are first shall be last;

and the last first.

 

(concerning the dark,

the other end of the tunnel…

Long ago on the Isle of Mann

rising above the Irish Sea—

refusing the yellow rose, my hand,

Anna turned her shoulder on me.

Now as I swim I dream of land,

sifting from darkest depths of memory.

Read one more chapter if you can—

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A lamppost named Mark: pt. III.

Sunday, May 21st, 2017

read full Lamppost Poem, in order

 

III.

You know, perhaps—

perhaps you know—

there are so many lampposts…

One hero must have caught that hovering train,

escaped his fate, so late, so late,

at night, at night, at night.

 

On a dark speeding train, our hero, waiting,

watching lights cast shadows,

“Where to, Mr.?”

“The only place I ever go

no matter where I am,

elsewhere.

 

“Like beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

Or consciousness evoking this sweet lie,”

The Lamppost, half-blind, asked the starry sky,

“The blinking of my eye does pass the time?”

 

Now on that train I cautiously awake,

don’t give the dream time to evaporate,

pick up my pen, scribble Defenestrate.

I smile, then laugh, and wakefulness forsake.

 

My lamppost hero journeyed cross the sands—

Deserted desert cut by canyon ridge—

He dangerously danced along the edge.

This precipice cannot be crossed by man.

 

“Unless the time that travels makes me man,

enough to see the cliffs become the sand.”

 

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A lamppost named Mark pt: II.

Tuesday, May 16th, 2017

read full Lamppost Poem, in order

 

II.

“You’ll never catch me alive, coppers,”

a composite ill-suited to this serial town,

the Lamppost hobbled to the crossroads

and held out his thumb to flag the hovering night-train.

How much time,

how much one-eyed time.

 

On the darkest of nights as the moon first waxed,

the Lamppost could not see the man wearing all black.

With a rose et al. law-stick, the lamppost’s arms froze to the crosswalk

— the poor, poor, half-blind lamppost,

you know he was born with only

how much time.

 

And that was the end.

 

—Unless I’ve misremembered,

which happens now and then.

 

 

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Hazy Arizona Sky

Sunday, April 2nd, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Midnight,

Sonoran Desert,

sleep, baby talk, dust covering my eyelids.

No need for covers, blankets,

sunscreen, sand is my pillow.

Adaptations

morning fireball

hurls into Arizona sky,

survival shifts gears,

momentum becomes a racecar driver

baking down on cracked,

crusted earth-

makes Prickly Pear cactus

open to visitors just a mirage,

cactus naked spit and slice

rubbery skull, glut open

dreams, flood dry.

Western cowboy wishes, whistles, and movies

valley one cup of cool, clear, fool’s desert gold

dust refreshing poison of the valley.

Bring desert sunflowers, sand dunes, bandanas,

leave your cell phone at home.

 

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Solo Boxing

Sunday, March 26th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

Solo boxing, past midnight,

tugging emotions out of memories embedded,

tossing dice, reliving vices, revisiting affairs,

playing solitaire-marathon night,

hopscotch player, toss the rock,

shots of Bourbon.

 

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Little Desert Flower

Sunday, March 19th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson 

 

Out of this poem

grows a little desert flower.

it is blue sorrow

it waits for your return.

You escape so you must from me

refuge, folded, wrapped in cool spring rain leaves-

avoiding July, August heat.

South wind hell-fire burns memories within you,

branded I tattoo you, leave my mark,

in rose barren fields fueled with burned and desert stubble.

Yet I wait here, a loyal believer throat raw in thirst.

I wrest thunder gods gathering ritual-prayer rain.

It is lonely here grit, tears rub my eyes without relief.

Yet I catch myself loafing away in the wind waiting fate

to whisper those tiny messages

writer of this storm welded wings,

I go unnoticed but the burned eyes of red-tailed hawk

pinch of hope, sheltered by the doves.

I tip a toast to quench your thirst,

one shot of Tequila my little, purple, desert flower.

 

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Alberta Bound

Monday, March 13th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

I own a gate to this prairie

that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.

They call it Alberta

trail of endless blue sky

asylum of endless winters,

hermitage of indolent retracted sun.

Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.

Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,

ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.

Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.

Travel weary I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.

In harmony North to South

Gordon Lightfoot pitches out

a tone

“Alberta Bound.”

With independence in my veins,

I am long way from my home.

 

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Lion in my Heart

Thursday, March 9th, 2017

by Michael Lee Johnson

 

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion, I swear.

I eat leaves and underbrush, foliage of the forest, I belch.

Then I fall in love with birds, strangers and wild women.

Tears fall into the lush forest green below,

like Chinese crystal glass beads, shatter.

Then I realize it’s not the jungle, but I that am alone.

In the morning when the bed squeaks, both alarm clocks erupt,

I realize I’m alone in my jungle.

I hear the calls of the wild-

the streetcars, and the metro trains,

wake me in my sleep in my jungle alone,

let me belch in my belly with my Tums,

let me dream in my aloneness I swell.

There is a heart embedded inside this male lion,

I swear jungle man, lion lover, and city dweller.

 

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White Clouds of Elation

Sunday, January 29th, 2017

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon.

White Clouds of Elation

Sneezing
out oxy
first thing
in the
morning

Walking
through a
white cloud
of elation

Climbing
the stairs
avoiding
the steps

Only a
follower
would
submit
to a
program

I’m making
progress
one day at
a time

All my faith
is consolidated
into a single
phone call

I often wonder
how the other
side lives

Able to accept
all the things
that drive
people to
madness

This renegade
is still free
to walk these
streets of
disease
without the
threat of
infection

This straw
is my sword

This bottle
my shield

Together we’ll
fight off the
contamination
of societal
madness

 

 

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