December 11-17, 2023: Poetry from Pamela Miller and Michael Lee Johnson

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Pamela Miller

Pamela Miller lives in Chicago, where poets don’t mess around. She is the author of six books of poems, including Recipe for Disaster and Miss Unthinkable (both from Mayapple Press), How to Do the Greased Wombat Slide (forthcoming from Unsolicited Press), and Mr. Mischief (forthcoming from dancing girl press). Her text poetry and visual poetry have appeared in BlazeVOX, Otoliths, Word For/Word, shufPoetry, RHINO, New Poetry From the Midwest, Nixes Mate Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is currently working on a series of ghost story poems.

The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Pamela Miller and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Unabashed Love Song

Yowza!
Like a Dr. Seuss translation of Beowulf,
I catapult into your arms.

I’m bursting with amorous abundance
that makes Ceres look like a piker.
My heart is a squash, an ear of corn
that feeds and feeds and feeds.

My affection will never absquatulate
like a dead Ghanaian zooming off to Heaven
in an airplane-shaped coffin.
I love you indelibly, toweringly,
like the Washington Monument
nodding its planarian head.

My mission is to encircle you
with everything that’s endearing.
I twirl around and around you
in a ballgown made of cotton candy.
My desire drapes across you
like a ceremonial sash.

Let me murmur to you in a phosphorescent language
that contains seven levels of love.
My giddy body is a luxury hotel
waiting for you to make your grand entrance.
Sweep into me. Inhabit me forever.

Oh, look! Look!
We’re growing intertangled wings.

 


My Morning Rituals

Oblongs of light caress my face
as I surge out of bed like a tsunami.
I look in the mirror and there they are again:
parakeets sprouting from my shoulders.

I balance a cup of coffee on my head
as I sink down into the lotus position
and meditate till my mind
feels like a Cadbury Creme Egg.

I do the jackrabbit dance for half an hour
in a see-through robe and squiggly wig,
kicking like an electric Rockette.
Not easy to do when you’ve just turned seventy
and the floor is eroding beneath you,

but the tree of bliss growing up my spine
will keep me rooted here for a few more years.
So I fashion myself into a lightning rod,
a fortress in the shape of a woman,

to kick time’s butt like the Ukrainian army
till the treads of my tank rust through.
I rock back and forth on the fulcrum of “Who knows?”
then shimmy on down to the diamond mine
of whatever will happen today, today.

 

Mating Dance

You are a wizard with his hat between his legs.
I’m twenty-four vaginas baked in a pie.

I wear your embrace like a kimono of gold dust.
You’re my antidote to questionable paladins.

You rearrange ghosts into doilies of lust.
I’m draped like a curtain over foreplay’s window.

I careen through your dreams in souped-up glass slippers.
You’re the murmurous frame around my heart’s portrait.

You orchestrate our bodies’ moist collusion.
I offer you the key to my hidden hieroglyphics.

I claw my way up terraces of moonlight,
I skate between the lines of anonymous love letters,
I waltz down the halls of the Orgasm Museum,
and who do I find but you, you, you!

Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson, USA & Canadian citizen, now Chicagoland area, is an internationally published poet in 45 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. Over 296 YouTube poetry videos as of -2023.

The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Michael Lee Johnson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Casket of Love

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,
offers the light by which we love.
In this park, grass knees high, tickling bare feet,
offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.
Sir Winston Churchill would have
saluted the stately manner this fog lifts,
marching in time across this pond
layering its ghostly body over us
cuddled by the water’s edge,
as if we are burdened by this sealed
casket called love.
Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses
trumpet the last farewell.
A flock of Canadian geese flies overhead
in military V formation.
Yet how lively your lips tremble
against my skin in a manner no
sane soldier dare deny.

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