By Michael Lee Johnson

Trail of Tears in the Snow

Footprints in the snow, fresh.
Will your divorce lawyers talk
to Jesus this night—
set me chain-free.
Set you on your traveling ways.
Searching, we’ll both be curiously searching.
Even hell has its standards burn with grace—
jukebox baby, we’ll meet again
in the end, in that big black box.
Jesus suffers with the poor and the lost.
Jesus is the lead tempo rubato
4 both of us now bounce around
robbed of our stolen time.
Let me drive you home for the last time.
Coming home to go on separate paths.
Footprints fresh in the snow, 2 paths
forked off in different directions.
Hear diverse sounds —
on the FM radio, our favorite tune,
with age, it will become a classic
‘Sympathy For the Devil,’ The Stones,
jukebox, baby, put another quarter in.

Just Another Poet

Just another poet.
There will always be
another poet to take my place.
In the pillars of heaven & pits
of hell is a particle of those passed.
Beliefs of Muslim burial with honors
in the sea within hours of death.
Hindu cremation in the Ganges River witnesses a transparent
yet raw ritual filters floating dead bodies upside down.
The smell of fish at dinner was so inviting,
that scent of the stench of human flesh rotting & death not so much.
Christians offer prayers at the cross of faith
to raise the poets of merit up from the grave.
Einstein’s physical formula is confused
as he works on this issue of master poets
near his grave; echoes haunt past & present;
he loved so many different women in private, you know.
An online poetry encyclopedia stretches
out pages that best begin to end.
Clay tablets, the Epic of Gilgamesh
Mesopotamia, parchment bits pieces,
yellow padded paper, those restaurant napkins,
scribbled—AI-generated digital design converted fakes.
Ultimately, time guarantees an unfashionable death stamp.
Poets, notices, and rituals are all gone from here undefined.
End this mirror of me, no intellectualism mixing with Jesus’ imagination.
Who are the poetry warriors who rest best on the pillows of gold & silver,
yawning dreams, stubbornness with pain?
Dimly lit, no memory, no response.

In My Will

In my will, there will be a pinball machine.
A renovated jukebox from American Pickers,
a cable TV show. For the taverns, bars,
and basements of fun seekers for those
who long to be free and ferocious.
I no longer fear death.
Empty vodka bottle by my bed.
A dusty Bible underlined
Jesus’ messages
in red.

Old Fiddle Man

Old daddy man
playing fiddle man
in a family youth band.
He was the star.
Crowds paid & rushed
through that door, dancing
clapping to hear a few slim notes
for just transitory seconds
a few brief notes only
realizing the ephemeral
rhythm man before he died.
Dance, dance, dance,
fiddle man past midnight
tonight, he lost his bow.
83 years old, arthritic fingers
World War 2 man
scally cap, cheese cutter cap—
dipped down cap.
83 years old fiddle man.
Thornwood Restaurant & Lounge.

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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 330-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication. He is a proud member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.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.” Remember to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!