poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:019
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSTON : Maple Tree Night and Snowy Visitors
for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audieance,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish

Maple Tree Night and Snowy Visitors
Winter tapping hollow maple tree trunk- a four month visitor about to move in unload his messy clothing, be windy about it- bark is grayish white as coming night with snow fragments the seasons. The chill of frost lays a deceitful blanket over the courtyard greens and coats a ghostly white mist over reddish gold maple leaves widely spaced teeth- you can hear them clicking like false teeth or chattering like chipmunks threatened in a distant burrow. The maple tree knows the old man approaching has showed up again, in early November with ice packed cheeks and brutal puffy wind whistling with a sting.  

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:019

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON is a poet, freelance writer, photographer in Itasca, Illinois, who is published in hundreds magazines in 25 countries..  Michael has released The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  JOHNSTON also has over 68 poetry videos on YouTube. HOMEPAGE

I'm in one of those moods where I look for things within things, a paper plate burning in a campfire reveals a mouth widening to chase its own scream, I've always wondered if spirits are able to take form in these moments of fragile change, the ice is thin on the river, you can see water moving over rocks underneath, but even without movement there is change, a face in the grain of the wood shuts its eyes, a shadow sleeps in the corner, the floor sighs, I am not one to ignore the unexplained, a shock of static when thinking of ghosts, steam rising without a source, we seek the workings, the reason, didn't she tell you of the way horses run, how their hot nostrils remind them to breathe, it is in the search with no answer, the falling of our own question, the sun sets, we crawl into darkness, the crow dies when we ask for the crow, only in the cry of what we didn't call for, only in the image beneath, the crescent moon, perfect curve of a nipple caught by candlelight.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:019

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs.

free counters

The shaved moon turns her sickle back to Venus and stars shower through her lunar arms fast as blinks. Shaving by shaving she waxes to full bloom, then turns her smooth face to Venus to celebrate Winter Solstice.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:019

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary


MICHAEL LEE JOHNSTON : Maple Tree Night and Snowy Visitors

thank you for reading poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:019

link to poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v14/019.html