1 year ago


Little Desert Flower By

Little Desert Flower 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 leavesavoiding 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. Author bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 915 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. His website is: Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 101 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: . Michael Lee Johnson was nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 & Best of the Net 2016. He is also the editor/publisher of anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow. 54

Went Over To Poe’s Place By Frank Grigonis He was tipping one back as usual, one of his tooyoung cousins, I mean. So in the moment he didn’t hear me ask if he wanted a beer. Then this singular squeak assailed my ears, which turned out to be a skinny black cat pushing open the chamber door. “Can’t you see that I am presently engaged?” implored Poe, his eyes rolling into the black caverns of tragical affection. But by now the black cat was rubbing his knobby spine against my shivering shin, so I didn’t say a thing but instead watched with horror as Poe’s cousin transformed into a 250 pound Wal-Mart shopper fairly covered with raven tattoos. “What can it mean!?” I screamed to Edvard Munch who was busy painting something on the sanguine’s shopper’s ever-widening thigh. “Never mind that!” shrieked the cat with eyes wide like empty saucers, “Just get me to a shelter before he kills me with one of those sordid stories!” Author bio: Frank Grigonis writes poetry and fiction. He likes Rimbaud and cats, not in that order. He can be reached at 55

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