Matthew Johnson is a sports journalist in central New York. He has written for The Carolinian, Fansided and the USA Today College. He has had poetry featured in The Carolinian, The Coraddi, Obsidian Magazine, The News Verse News, the Yellow Chair Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Sick Lit Magazine and Ink in Thirds. He has poetry forthcoming in the Roanoke Review. You can find him on Twitter at https://twitter.com/Matt_Johnson_D There Was a Snake in My Garden Snakes in the early dawn never intend for good, But maybe the dewing wet in the seep of this garden Have cast your willowy shadow on this lawn To cool the bates in your slithering, looping mood. Snakes in the early dawn, when the sun is coolest, Is a boneless outcast passing round and round Until the birds of the air descend on my backyard, Who squawk for losing another meal, or provide him Nature. Winter in Love I love you in Winter, and in all seasons. I love you in your black, now silver, snow-scraping coat That now shines like a crystalline gown, As the silver, free-wheeling laughs you shout Are only heard by me, the sleeping city and hushed clouds. I love you in Winter till you are toasty. I love you like only love can be loved When we can only be this human, And can only be this young. The smoky wisp of neighboring chimneys And the breath of the moon Only brighten the twinkle In your snowflake, tickled eyes. I love you in Winter, and in all seasons. I love how you leap in bushes of snow As we roam in the flurries dumped by the sky That give reason for your red scarf, And another for why we hold another so tight. Night Watching the Universe Gift me everything about you On this roof-top. Let me know if you think God is up to something. Tell me your familiar things, Tell me your scary things That would make this world Seem like small space, Or death. Or would you like To roam the cosmos Finding stars before the City Light countdown, Or until the universe drops itself? Your Stories Bring me your stories, and I will be your keeper of tales. From your towers damselled in distressed, Let me scribble not theirs, but your escaped lores and fables. Away from everywhere, in the midst of this empty, plastic domain, Paint me your passionate parables impressed on your purpose, For I will stain and dye your untamed spectacles on chronicled lines. Share with me those long walks in autumn, Where the golden trees hang like mythic shadows. Or perhaps where you dropped those last pieces of leaves In those metropolitan cities, where language is wordless. Allow me to capture the welling tears of an unblinking martyr. Tell me His Kingdom, as in Heaven has come. Tell me that God is dead and done. Let me linger in your abandoned howls from midsummer, from beginning to October end, As this weary patience dangles on the fringe of explosions, without escape! For I will seek what you abandoned to hide, And bring your double identity to light. For in all the crumblings of the tellings and findings of what you thought you knew, I will scratch your adventures of living proof for a world and heaven complete, But all I ask, is that you please continue…
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
ArchivesCategories
All
|