Turnips in Southern Tennessee Still
In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern
wooden structures stalled off the narrow
highway and came to an abrupt end.
Lost in the deep eyes of forest green,
closing in on night.
From the top of a Yellow Poplar
tree scares me looking down
at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine
and moonlight illuminate the fire stills.
Moonshine murders of the past,
dead bodies hidden behind blue walls.
Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks
on the right side lie dormant through plaster.
This confirms my belief that Jesus
only works part-time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo album.
One more time—
find the turnips in the still.
Steel Bars a Single Sheet
I'm Steely Dan Seymour Butts,
South America, trust me on that.
I can't pull up my sheet inside
these steel bars anymore. 25 to life.
No man is God in the cold or the clouds.
Isolated poets grab words anywhere
they can find them in newspaper clippings,
ripped-out Bible verses are a sin.
No one pities people like me in prison.
Spiders hang from my cell ceiling—
dance the jitterbug, "In the Mood."
Jigger bug fleas on my unpainted
cement floors.
My butt is toilet paper brown, flush.
Toxic thoughts grind on my aging
face, body, and declining health.
In this dream, I reach
for a hacksaw that is not there.
End this night & so many more
suffer in just a snore.
Breadcrumbs for Starving Birds
Smiling across the ravine,
snow-cloaked footbridge.
Prickly ropes slick with ice,
snow-clad boards, pepper sprinkled
with raccoon tracks, virgin markers,
a fresh first trail.
Across and safe,
I toss yellow breadcrumbs
onto white snow for starving birds.
In the Sun, They All-Pass
In the bright sun in the early morning
Gordon Lightfoot sings.
When everything comes back,
to shadow thin, thunderclaps—
and drips of rain.
The coffee pot is perking again.
Even though Gordon has passed.
I experience a mix of life.
A blender of the plurality of singulars
mounting movie moving frames
all returning to memory and mind.
The echoes of insanity, a whisper
schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses.
The romances of Leonard Cohen
are hidden in foreign hotel rooms,
lost keys, forgotten scenarios
and forgotten places.
All silence skedaddles
away from death stolen
those leftover tears of a lifetime—
now expired on earth—
seek through
pain abstains.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 336-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication. He is a proud Illinois State Poetry Society member,
http://www.illinoispoets.org/,
and an Academy of American Poets member, https://poets.org/. His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence "Citta' Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis" XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, "If I Were Young Again."
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