Sunday, March 15, 2015

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

Dead Grey Wolf Skins

Dead grey wolf skins hang
on white clotheslines across Baraboo, Wisconsin
the dark surface, dirty old shack, side of the moon,
that only exists in memories hung high, long before.
Hunters in the past did their job well,
sold skins, collected a few bucks,
increased deer for hunting, saved cattle,
decreased fear, told tales, short stories, adventures.

The grey wolf face now emergent,
opens his mouth wide in the safety
open in blue sky.
Shows his white teeth against
background of black sky, shadow,
hears thunder again, releases
fireflies at night, monarch butterflies
during the day, guts down pine tree spikes.
He walks once again over landscapes of turquoises.
He consumes dirt road dust, tracks trails, 114.4 miles from Milwaukee to Baraboo.
His keen eyes are sharp for growth of skyscraper, Pabst brewery building.
Traveling side roads over many years brings him to the present.
No more violators, hunters with guns, fake Jesus people
slender in His bathrobe Christ repeats two fishes, 5 loaves and the wolf survives.

Aldo Leopold feeding inmate in small jail cells only kills a few wolves for research.
Aldo a Saint of conservation a consumer of cigarettes and butts,
hear wings of doves attached, broken, stroke fire, a neighbor field
heart stroke drops into history.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era:  now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 27 countries.  He edits 8 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freendom (136 page book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 70 poetry videos on YouTube.

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