Monthly Archives: April 2014

Finish Line

He was so close, 26 point something done
And then something caught his eye,
for just a second.
Distracted and puzzled
He looked back
And tried to keep running forward.
The planners had seen all the rocks
On the road
And knew the runners would too
But not him.
For Just a second,
Distracted, disoriented, battle weary
He looked back
His foot kicked the unseen rock.
His knee
Connected with rough pavement
Marathon runner, de-salinated.
Lot’s Wife, salinated
Both connected with the path
Instead of hurrying along it
Both missed the point
Look forward to goals
Not backward to missed
Or distraction.
Point something
But lost
free verse, Lot’s Wife, suggested by Larry Megazzi


Unaware that there is a problem, the children play
While the world treads, mercilessly, with heavy, mocking
Boots, trampling the flowers of childhood’s sweet innocence
Children play, only aware that they are all children
Hate is a viral infection, love, the remedy
Until we learn to hate, we play, becoming best friends.

Recall the way you felt when you first met, became friends
With that one person, all you wanted to do was play
All day, and when they were sad, you raced to remedy
Whatever was wrong, to silence others from mocking
To rescue your friend from the bullying, mean children
It was too late for them, already lost, in a sense

Recall the moment when you lost childhood’s innocence
Who told you, or your friend, that you couldn’t be best friends?
That day when hate “rescued you” from “different” children…
Murdered your youth, when all you wanted to do was play
Left you in shock, soul mortally bleeding, hate mocking
How long before you knew you needed a remedy?

By then, though it was too late, there was no remedy
You said what you said, thoughtless, meaning words in no sense,
Having learned hate, being affirmed, you were mimicking,
Hurt, unchecked, spreads virally, killing love between friends
You wouldn’t say those things if you could watch on re-play
View your own words, ripping the hearts of other children

If we realize it happens, we might save children
Hate is a viral infection, love, the remedy
Please, just leave them alone, let them show us how to play
Let them stay children, remaining loving innocents
Without hate, how long before the thought, we differ, ends,
Our arms relearn to stretch, to hug, as fabrics smocking?

The voice of hate says, “you will never beat me,” mocking,
“I will have your heart, and the hearts of all your children.
There will always be differences, dividing friends.
They will not listen, though you know love.  Your remedy,
Will never restore your friendships, nor the innocence,
You once knew together, sharing all, children at play.”

Can you hear it mocking us? True love’s the remedy
We can all be children, if all want their innocence
For my part, I’m sorry. Let’s be friends again, and play!


I love the way she looks, heart so exposed,
So vulnerable when she is with me,
Her bitter sweetness, whimsy, lovely rose,
She is a work of art, blooming.  Look!  See?

Without her, I’m depressed, lonely and sad,
Dreaming of how she makes things feel so right,
Her dark, oiled surface, soft.  Ah!  Love is mad!
That beauty, perfect, blended black and white,

My heart pounds when I drink enough of her
And yet I wonder, can there be enough?
My soul says “No,” and it is true, I’m sure,
Steamy romance, whipped cream, caramel, fluff,

Soft, hot, frothed bubbles floating in the mug
My latte’s ready, like a sensual hug!

True Love’s Unfair (Rondeau Redoblé)

True love’s unfair, although a worthy quest,
Our time is fairer less:  tick-tock!  It’s gone,
We should run long and hope to be so blessed,
Awaking slowly, to enjoy the dawn

Strike one heart, leave others’ doors not knocked on,
The darts of love are haphazard at best
To find someone with whom to share life’s song
True love’s unfair, although a worthy quest.

When love is found, too often it’s a test,
As fickle humans’ eyes, to lust, are drawn,
When found, how swiftly comes eternal rest:
Our time is fairer less- tick-tock!  It’s gone!

The competition’s fierce.  At starting gun, 
As one, we strive to have and hold the best,
But “best” is different for everyone,
We should run long, and hope to be so blessed.

Some say that love’s a game to play, like chess.
If love’s a game, then I would be her pawn.
Let time advance, but slow, ’til I’m possessed,
Awaking slowly, to enjoy the dawn.

If I’m to find love, let me chance upon
A heart that beats warm, under softest breast,
Me: ugly duckling, winning lovely swan,
Passing by any others, who’ve assessed,
True love’s unfair.

“Demon Tree”

“Demon Tree”     Michael N. Johns   4/27/2014

Across from Carlisle Park, in Ohio,
The “Demon Tree,” though dead, grows every year
The residents hearts sense a fear and woe,
Across from Carlisle Park, in Ohio
Perhaps the tree just needs a friend’s hello.
Feel sadness, frustrations no one can hear,
Across from Carlisle Park, in Ohio,
The Demon Tree, though dead, grows every year.

Afraid (Rictameter)

Afraid  –   Michael Johns  –  4/26/2014

Teen angst, growing.
Mirror! I’m not pretty?
What if my friends laugh, don’t like me?
Do they notice my stupid hair? I’m fat.
Dad says I’m beautiful. Maybe
My dad’s right. Maybe I
Don’t need to be

rictameter form suggested by Mary Couch

About Me and My Poetry

My inspiration is the voice
Of characters, I’ll have my choice,
I’ll write a work of fiction, by
Listening, feeling, taste, or eye,

Or smell- the memory of bread,
From my childhood, still in my head.
Some humor found in online news,
Or history may be my muse,

The darkness of a secret curse,
The light of hopes unseen, rehearsed,
A night of solitude, of pain,
The dreams of life, for a refrain,

A car, a boat, a plane, a shoe,
Who knows?  I could write about you,
Names changed, you’d never recognize
I wrote you down:  your  truth, my  lies,

Or bricks, or water, storms, or streets,
The songs of characters one meets,
I hear the voices in my head,
And I write down the things they’ve said.


Why does the alcoholic crave the next drink
Mourning the empty flagon
Dropped in the sink
As one grieving life’s end
For an old friend?

Why does the oil need vinegar so bad
Yet separate until shaken?
Dressing salad,
The best flavors depend
On a good blend

Why does the drug addict crave the next fix?
Fearing supplier’s conviction
Locked behind bricks
The body cries out for more,
Silent tremor.

Why do the magnet ends now push, now pull?
Polarized love, or rejection
She’s whimsical
By choice.  When she turns around,
He’ll rebound.

Why do I need you while you don’t need me
You’re my favorite addiction
Damaging me.
I always come back for more.  
Soaring, or sore.

I want you to crave me, need me, hold me
Me: living earthquake, shaken,
Magnet ending,
Locked out, starving without you.
What shall I do?


Sent for three days and three nights
On an all-expense-paid trip
Jonah was whale-puke.  What a sight!
Not to mention, a smelly drip.

“Behold, My Servant will be
Exalted and lifted high.”
Fine sarcasm it seems to me,
Is God’s sense of humor that dry?

Sometimes I think it is, but
In Jonah’s case, perhaps not.

Only the sign of Jonah,
Offered to validate Him,
Jesus promised and delivered,
When hope was growing pretty dim.

Sent for three days and three nights,
To the belly of a grave,
Facing gruesome death and its’ frights,
Rejected, on mission to save.

So, did the earth feel nauseous
’til it vomited Jesus?

Matthew 12:38-45, Isaiah 52-53, Jonah 2:10, and yes I know it was a “big fish,” not a “whale.”