Dead Grass-Old Poets
I saw you both in centenarians' dreams.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum were way past
the recollection of years of recalling thoughts.
Diddling away time, storytelling in front of children
playing leapfrog with words.
Posing as loners pulling whirligig toys around.
Contemplating a simple facial gesture
towards God, visualize a different image returned.
Reflections, those darting, sinful shadows plaguing the dark.
Poe never remembered much, amnesia sniffed out of a bottle.
His impish actions created a theater of glued horror.
Poe stumbles through dirt, mud paths,
town streets, those night bars, local, deadly.
Emerson's thoughts are not nearly the same.
He never walked intoxicated, tripping
on bygone wooden street planks.
Ghost encounters were never the same,
no steps, no stones, no delusions.
Emerson's self-reliance, minus bubbly suds.
Emerson's grave inscription
Sleepy Hollow slumber, I rest—
"Passive Master lent his hand."
Dead grass, old poets, deceased.
Poe, "Here, at last, I'm happy."
Rolling over three red roses
and a bottle of cognac.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Michael Lee Johnson, a renowned poet from Downer Grove, IL, has gained international recognition for his work, which has been published in 46 countries or republics. His several published poems have been nominated for 7 Pushcart and 7 Best of the Net nominations. Join his journey. Michael has over 355 poetry videos on YouTube: / @poetrymanusa.
Join his Facebook poetry site here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/768626979167037.
He spent 10 years in exile in Canada during the Vietnam War era.
Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/
and Poets & Writers: https://www.pw.org/.
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