By Gregory Johnson
Always Will Be the Scream
Down deep In the dark wet places He is mired in muck And he screams. Holy sufferer Or a ghost on a spree Gives his voice To the tortures therein. I told him sincere That he didn’t have to scream He stopped, puzzled… Then what? He seemed to say. Hear the screaming Of your brothers and sisters It echoes along The valley wall. Souls howling To the violin tune You must be crazy You must be sane. Scream to me A mad lusty yell A call to awaken Or a siren of sleep. Your screams will sail Across a fascinated universe Full with cold passion And the hearts of the lost. Always will be the scream A baby protesting birth A dying skeleton Protesting death. The cosmos was born With a bloody scream Its lungs expand still To create new stars. But yes there will always Be the scream Clear and true Louder than God, louder than you.
Eaten By Flies
Ant thoughts drift through an open airy head march along now march the next task is at hand my brothers march along now. You stare into an open sky dream alive and fall into the chasm narrowed between two worlds catch the brainstorm and piss out the results. Move the garden implements from the garage to the shed dust and brown recluse emotions, dank suspended in a floating mind. Doodle out a mysterious figure draped in sharpie shadows rendered black and scratched out discoveries furrowed brow discussion maybe this maybe that. Play across a thousand parking lots with yellow lines black asphalt a place to put your memories a shopping cart full of forgotten daydreams and impatience. Lean against a broken idea filled with apples and dirty hope steaming like shit on a hot day dropped just now carelessly left to dry and harden, eaten by flies.
I Have Never Been Here Before
I awaken From dreams Courageous and mundane Pictures of insecurity Falling into traps Walking endlessly An Escher staircase Bare wooden floors. I rise A dull Lazarus Aching and unwilling. A new day I have never been here before With the tide of thoughts Old and uncertain pictures Tasks and worries. I will own This heavy morning Drape the moments With light lace Let the dead light in. There is no such thing As silence With crows yelling Cardinals declaring Sirens and garbage trucks I sit within This swirling cacophony Breathe deep. The Master of Ceremonies Yells let the day Fall.
Gregory Johnson has been an artist and poet for over forty years. For Gregory, poetry and art is a much- needed therapy, a way to get out of this mind trap. He attended Cooper School of Art, Cleveland, Ohio. He is an active member of the Ohio Poetry Association. Published in the OPA release “Common Threads” the last three years and online on Poetic Sun, originating in Japan. His art will be featured on “Neon Door” in October. His artwork and poetry can be found on his website: gregoryalanart.com. Twitter: GregoryAlanArt. Instagram: gregoryalanart
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