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
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

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

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: Twitter: GregoryAlanArt.  Instagram: gregoryalanart

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