The canvas was blank, and she started working,
Staring intently, brushes now slow, now jerking,
Looking at the work with rapt dissatisfaction.
Her canvas took shape, brush and tint, careful action.
The brushes dropped slowly, as she settled. “Enough.”
“The work is adequate,” she said, “although rough,”
She never felt like it was pretty at all,
But she painted, winter, spring, summer and fall,
He saw her canvas, and fell, daily, in love,
He saw the beauty, without the make-up.
TOGA PARTY! 2/27/2015, Michael Johns
White togas with gold hem and edges are so two thousand years ago!
What shall I wear, I’ve got nothing to wear, maybe I just shouldn’t go.
Everyone still wears those ugly rags, and those horrid laurel leaves, too,
Last time I tried that with my hair gel, I swear the leaves sprouted and grew!
I’ve got twelve tired white togas with gold hemmed edges, I want something new!
If I can’t wear something different, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I could just die of embarassment! What am I going to wear?
Die, die…dye? That’s IT! I’ll dye. I’ll DYE! After all, who would care?
What color to choose, any color is better than this awful white.
Perhaps an understated purple, or a soft red would be all right.
BOTH! I’ll do both! What fun, what fun! This party is going to be great!
Maybe two matching togas, after all, I do have to bring a date.
The dye looked great except that the formula damaged all the stitching,
I tried to play cool when they fell apart, that was after the itching
My date was perfect, and looked better un-stitched, I’m not going to lie,
But on our way home, she asked, “Sweetie, couldn’t you have just worn a tie?”
What Kind of God?, Michael N. Johns, 2/20/2015
Everyone wonders about God, or has an opinion,
Or doubts, or faith in one perspective or another.
Those who would question God often wonder,
Why this or that is allowed? Then they tell how they’d change
This or that, if it was their decision.
Which god is The God? Are they fake, or is one God real?
Did we create a god in our image, or the reverse?
And if God is God, do such questions bring a curse?
Is God like us in some way, or peculiar and wholly strange?
Is God singular, plural, male, female, ideal?
To the devout, the steadfast, the doubter, the faithless,
If we are crushed every day or at least by occasional strain,
Why do some seem to sail smoothly, while for others, life is pain?
What kind of god would you be? What would you rearrange?
Would you do better? Why and who would you bless?
People ask all these questions; some even dare to claim
They know God; they’ve seen Him or Her or them or it
Deaf sheep get fleeced, or sacrificed, as they follow the leadership
Of the extra-sentient, the prophetic, the liar or the deranged,
Who presume to speak comforts, or horrors, in God’s name.
If there is a God, then it is all assembled by design,
Even if God spun it and then we were all abandoned.
Are there rules we should obey? What if it’s not all random?
What if we’re wrong, wasting time? One life is not all that long range.
Which Voice should we follow? Your God or mine?
I’m looking for Light, a Voice of hope, a ring of Truth, a reason,
I’m looking for a loving heart despite chaos and destruction
Just like everyone else, I want to know how to stop evil’s seduction.
Is there purpose? Are we acting for a Critic, playing parts on life’s stage?
Why do so many worship themselves, when we’re only here a season?
If you were god for a day, how would you fix this ungodly mess?
Smite evildoers, destroy destroyers, or wait with merciful intent?
What if everyone is evil? Would you brim, spill eternal disappointment?
What kind of god would you be? What would you rearrange?
Would you do better? Why and who would you bless?
something old again, reflecting on Daniel 5:
Deity Graffiti
We feast, and dedicate to Sin,
Our sacred vessels we defile,
Despite our loving God’s patience,
We cast our gaze East, to denial,
Or Westward, back to slavery,
What direction is not folly?
Our hearts divide with each new thrill,
Pursuing some new sensation.
Weighed down but wanting, trapped, evil,
Our kingdom brings just desolation,
An emptiness nothing can fill,
And emptiness no thing can fill.
All taking and no giving back,
Our selfish hearts crave only more,
Our days are numbered, fade to black,
Can’t carry things through our death’s door.
We only have one life to give,
And no one knows how long we’ll live,
God’s handwriting is on our wall,”
Two minas, a shekel, and half a coin,
How far down to we have to fall,
Before we see where this is going?
Our lives have feather light meanings,
Until we turn. Then heaven sings.
©06/07/2012, Michael N. Johns
Revelation & Genesis, 05/22/2013, Michael N. Johns
The world ended, on Mayan schedule, in Two Thousand Twelve, December.
It occurred again, as it had twice the year before, as Harold Camping said, remember?
We’re riding a cold, black rock in space; the fires are gone out from our flaming ember.
It ended again in 1914, 18, 75 and 84, not counting at least another six events,
The Jehovah’s Witnesses were right, they saw it happening as their dates came and went.
Over seven million people can’t be wrong, following blindly where they’re sent.
The followers throw their real money at false leaders, who give false prophecies,
The leaders spend the money on homes, suits and cars, and never cure one disease.
Why don’t you just give your money to me? I’d like to be rich, if you please.
Look out! It’s the Antichrist, he’s lurking right there behind you now,
He whispers we should not believe, and never steps out to take a bow,
And “we like sheep” may, faithless, follow, led astray by this spirit somehow.
Aliens are coming! Witches, psychics, and prophets say the earth does backflips,
The music of the “new age,” like the music of the old “new age,” is a sign of the apocalypse,
And the followers pay their cash and learn to dance to the tune. Oh, look, it’s an eclipse.
The end of all things is “devoutly …wished,” but no one knows when it’ll come,
When living like there’s no tomorrow, some people act suicidally dumb.
It’s not winter yet. Instead, let us live, work, and plan as if this were autumn.
The truth is that the end is very near; Jesus will come, but you or I could die today,
It happens quietly most of the time; we see people pass, in a nondramatic way,
But while we live, there’s a new Revelation to find, and a new Genesis we make, every day.
It’s been such a long time and we’ve come so far,
Since the old days when love hit me so hard,
I lost all sensibility.
Now we hardly ever talk at all,
You don’t ring, not that I’d answer your call,
If you had something to say to me.
The signs were there, you were reluctant,
To give me your heart, to give love a chance,
And I didn’t have a clue,
I still don’t know why your heart was locked,
Or why your rejection always shocked,
I didn’t know what I wanted from you.
When did it all go wrong, so wrong?
I want to say so long, so long.
I want to stay with you, with you,
Why can’t I talk with you? I’m blue.
Now I know what I want, and it’s your heart and soul,
And your passion and fire, a slow-burning coal,
To fan it into flickering flames.
I try, try again and you shut me down,
Maybe you think of someone else, maybe I say it wrong.
I don’t know your rules for head games.
Do we just give up and walk away?
Please don’t tease me, say what you want to say,
What am I supposed to do?
And if you go, am I ever really free,
When my heart’s still captive to your beauty?
How do I “just” go find someone new?
When did it all go wrong, so wrong?
I want to say so long, so long.
Why can’t I talk with you? I’m blue.
I want to stay with you, with you, with you.
My Poems In It 