Promise  

I will promise you but first, promise yourself  
Be healthy as I promise you 
that nothing can disturb your peace of mind,
but remember to at the sunny horizon 
to breathe optimistically. 

Set your mind to be the best, 
to operate only for the best, 
and except only the best of your -self, 
force your inner self to maintain away   
from the mistakes of the past instead, 
learn! 

Give a bit more time to the improvement of  
yourself, and shut the hours of criticizing  
others, and be the first smile of tomorrow  
and continue to ignore those cloudy souls. 

Each time that you think of me, I promise to you, 
I am here for you, not just a guest. 
Life has given us so much to live for, even  
if my heart is filled with sorrow, 

I'd however prefer to be around your gorgeous eyes, 
hearing your loving accent, and falling in  
love with your delightful scent that will be  
the spring with its colour to sketch my path. 

12/02/2021 © Bleeding Heart Poet

The Shootist

In “The Shootist”, J.B. Books is not feeling up to snuff.
He has cancer. What are the concerns
of a man dying.

To die
commensurate with the way he lived his life.
Books dies in a gunfight.
McIntosh dies in the desert, under a broken wagon,
fighting Indians.
Norman Thayer will die of heart failure
by the side of his wife, Ethel.

Two police officers
die investigating a stolen moped at a gas station
in the Bronx.
One buys it between the eyes, the other in the back.
The killer out on early parole
from a manslaughter rap.
The DA blames the judge, the judge blames the parole board,
and the board says the jails are overcrowded.

What should I be doing, old turtle.
Devote myself to re-order the world
or crawl off to a lonely spot and preserve myself.
We are trying
to educate everyone to their individual capacities
and see that all are fed, clothed and sheltered adequately.
Because the suffering of one citizen makes suffering
for another, the slow death of one sometimes makes
the sudden murder of another.

There is this
black rock we live on and its lovely mantle of green.
It is all that is perfect. And everything of it is
perfect that respects its integrity. On the subway
I was amused to find, hidden in the confused
mass of anonymous, bleak graffiti, unseen
by the studied, expressionless passengers,
in pink, delicate script, vertically written,
the word penis.

People are the element I live in.
The world is pushy, we are bone,
the numbers of us overwhelm.
It is going to be hot again soon
and the Bronx will actively resent it.

Books dies in Carson City,
only two or three people will miss him at all.
He died alone as he lived,
with his enemies.

The Terminator

One leaf falls
holographic illusion
across time the Terminator travels
to shape Sarah Connors’ destiny.
Heart attack
a common enough destiny
as common as young men discussing girls’ tits.
The Constitution
is the document we refer to, the lodestone
to correct course and not go crazily astray.
Lose all purpose beyond murder, child sex and food hording.
Illuminated manuscripts
in a dark age, tape decks remind us of our voice
our communal voice
Supremes and Fred Astaire
the silken wail.

I lie alone in the night
its sensuality makes the best sense
it does or does not clarify the day
of classes or clients or chain saws
whatever fever may have infected me at the moment
a fever to achieve access to foreign films while living in the mountain community of
      Schroon Lake
the fever to instruct the American people how to apply ideals and practicalities of
      Constitution to international relationships
the fever not to die today, to maintain consciousness just one more season (and one
      more after that).

Anyway, what is being discussed–
the finiteness of one life–
or perhaps existence continues in another dimension, on another frequency
no owl hoots
but other purpler and indigo occurrences
with other purposes
as incomprehensible and wonderful as these purposes
to choke on a cherry pit or nuclear bomb
to wail our wail together
each individual identifiable hoot and wail, loud laugh and suppressed scream
one orbicular chant, humanity, from India to Indiana
complete, one sing.

I feel this way
searching for my place among you
childless, but a child among children
obeying or not obeying the speed limit
as my hormones permit
everywhere among brothers, the sisters among sisters
the races together exterminating the last rhinoceros and preserving its genes at the
      zoological society
my species attacking entire rain forests, temperate forests and boreal forests
like the engraver beetle in the red pine’s inner bark.
Thus, I occasionally cheer the Terminator
cheer the machine and neutron bomb
even in the face of individual heroics, the male and female face
their physical love, tender and violent
I don’t know what I want.

It could be simple
as this headache.
Not to despair
just to care enough to think clearly and accept 10,000 years of history.
Not to hate those in authority
humor is the only remedy
yellow ape teeth chimping in the glass death face
and ritual is remedy
a death song
and one for planting
and one for the beginning of loving.

The Burning of the Jews

It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the Modern World,
      that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting “the burning of the Jews,” flat perspective,
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially Jewish,
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
                                                         Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade’s performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My Favorite Things
but as the play darkened
with the town’s absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you=re just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.

Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won’t matter.
I’m reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn=t believe Israel should exist is by definition anti-Semitic.
Come to find out, I may fall into that category–not that Israel shouldn’t exist,
but as a so-called Jewish state
anymore than a Muslim or Christian land. To some
Jewishness is not a religion, it’s an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?

Jasper
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
                      A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it’s inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride
to my eye.

Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many’s more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
          we’re convinced
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European, African.
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags of ice, fields
      of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate toward the
      mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such abstraction and, thus, acted on a
      fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for “the burning of the Jews.”

A Gun in Every Home

Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.

A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases, fights) and a sexy,
      sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the community,
      the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the weed.
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women) side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.

Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian–Look what the Belgians are doing in the Congo!
When the state’s violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.

This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That’s a given–
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi’s scope, and King’s, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
                                                              Regarding King
the matter is simple–he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South’s violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be overwhelmed by southern
      violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the British. Or did he?
1)   There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi restrained but
       could release which the British feared, and
2) It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that allowed Gandhi to
      exist rather than be extinguished–this restraint was a (British) cultural imperative
      (limited scope) as well as emanating from Britain’s view of India as a protectorate
      and valued citizen of the united kingdom (defensive posture).

What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the common space, and
      preempt bad behaviors associated with otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.

---

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.

Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back

There’s a virus in the air, but I can’t see it.

People are dying around me, but I can’t save them.

There are spikes pierced in my back,

spasms, but I can’t touch them.

Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,

I covet in my prayers.

I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.

Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,

Jesus on that cross.

Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,

told me, “getting old isn’t for sissies.”

I didn’t believe her—

until the first mimic words

out of “Kipper” my new parakeet’s mouth,

sitting in his cage alone were 

“Daddy, it’s not easy being green.”

---

Leaves in December

Leaves, a few stragglers in

December, just before Christmas,

some nailed down crabby

to ground frost,

some crackled by the bite

of nasty wind tones.

Some saved from the matchstick

that failed to light.

Some saved from the rake

by a forgetful gardener.

For these few freedom dancers

left to struggle with the bitterness:

wind dancers

wind dancers

move you are frigid

bodies shaking like icicles 

hovering but a jiffy in the sky,

kind of sympathetic to the seasons,

reluctant to permanently go, rustic,

not much time more to play.

---

Group Therapy

Wind chimes.

Wind chimes.

It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.

I’m going to lead the group tonight talking

about Rational Emotive Therapy,

belief challenges thought change,

Dr. Albert Ellis.

I’m a hero in my self-worship,

self-infused patient of my pain,

thoughtful, probabilistic atheism

with a slant toward Jesus in private.

Rules roll gently creeping

through my body with arthritis 

a hint of mental pain.

Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,

writing this poem, late as usual.

It’s going to rain, thunder

heavy tonight.

---

Fiction Girl

(Transition)

Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction; 

the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.

Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing

to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,

yours is a manner of words at work. 

Mercury is a god of movement.

A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.

Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.

I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin

in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.

Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,

offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven

or hell, or toss back to earth.

Change is a choice where your energy flows.

No computer gods will help this poetic journey.

May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.

You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.

Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.

Flash fiction lines cross stars.

---

Cold Gray (V2)

Below the clouds

forming in my eyes,

your soft eyes,

delicate as warm silk words,

used to support the love I held for you.

Cold, now gray, the sea tide

inside turns to poignant foam

upside down separates-

only ghosts now live between us.

Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,

bearing no relation to reality-

my heart is beyond the sea now.

A relaxing breeze sweeps

across the flat surface of me.

I write this poem to you,

neglectfully sacrificing our love.

I leave big impressions

with a terrible hush inside.

Gray bones now bleach with memories,

I’m a solitary figure standing

here, alone, along the shoreline.

---

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2,013 new publications, and his poems have appeared in 40 countries. He edits and publishes 10 poetry sites.

Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry (2015), 1 Best of the Net (2016), 2 Best of the Net (2017), 2 Best of the Net (2018). 223 of his poetry videos are now on YouTube. He is the Editor-In-Chief of the poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, and Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry. Mr. Johnson is a member of the Illinois State Poetry Society.

Title: Santa In Two Worlds
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi

Genre: Crime Drama

For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:

– mrbenisreal@gmail.com

– rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com

Synopsis/Details: 

Santa’s world was in shambles. Just released from prison, having spent over a year, he was always the talk of the entire Santiago town. His long criminal records of stealing and drug-trafficking were reasons the 22-year-plus-old-man was always on the lips of every Santiagoan. Santa walked the length and breadth of the town in confidence but asked himself: “Why in the world are people of Santiago keeping me at armslenght, whereas I don’t mean any harm, I want a change but this addictions of crime wouldn’t help matters?!”

Like the old saying: “blood is thicker than water”, Santa’s family was an epitome of crime. His father was said to have died in a gun-battle with the popularly known Men of Peace, The Santiago Police Force, after an unsuccessful robbery operation, three months before Santa was born. His mom, a prostitute and drug addict, was a happy-go-lucky woman: flirting with any man she encounters on the streets of Santiago and beyond in exchange for drugs and money. Santa, having being raised by her single-handedly, grew up to embrace crime wholeheartedly. Santa thought of turning a new leaf; change for good and for the better. He craved for a sense of belonging and acceptance by the people. Santa looked forward to when the people of Santiago would embrace him like their brother. How to go about it was very confusing… There was no one he could confide in. Maria knew next to nothing! Her life was all about prostitution, drinking, smoking, despite being hospitalized at the Santiago Maternity Home.

In his ‘blur’ quest for the desired change and to avoid being ridiculed by people of the community—young and old, Santa foot-marched to the San-Amazona forest, Santiago’s most interior part to think about his life. There, he encountered a strange-looking plant but remembered what his mom would tell him about anything he saw as strange…The Tree of the gods. He chewed the leaves very well and swallowed them. Santa’s sudden weakness turned him to sleeping on the floor, under the canopy of the ever-green Tree of the gods.

Santa saw one thing he has never known—The unknown world of nature—where he saw exactly him in another world under a different situation but one thing connected them: CHANGE! Though they couldn’t get to see each other physically, both of them got what they wanted.

It was a world that would translate as: Santa in Two Worlds.

The Tomb

The fascination invested all around

Beguiled and made our trust diverted

Made the air poisonous

The fascination invested all around

Hacked and made our breath infected

Humanity today on the verge of jeopardy

Can’t shake our hands, stand in front of

Not to kiss nor to exchange love and hug

Remain one from the other apart

An unseen danger more than a tiger shrouded all over

How calamitous the present civilization!

Children getting admired afar from their father, mother, near and dear ones

Wives from husbands, fathers from mothers,

Brothers from sisters, lovers from the beloveds

Oh! The poor, helpless body trembling in temperature

Lips and hearts

Water rolling down on cheeks

How hungry, the pathetic world!

What do you teach us, dear?

Moving towards the sky the journey of the tempered body

Looming out of the darkness

We all go through

But the trance appears to be larger

Fly over the open blue sky

Twinkling the stars.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

01/04/2020

The Sky at Noon

Suddenly the sky covered with darkness

Possibly it may rain very soon

The shady world focus a glimpse of light

The sky appeared to be whiter and at same time darker

Sparking and roaring with thundering

Birds are flying and chirping and in the nest taking their shelter

Over my head, so many petals and cottons

Walking as if it was a moonlit night

Soft as like as this

You held my hand and stepped out

We sat for enjoying the light.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

02/04/2020

In This Lockdown World

In this lockdown world

Deer and dogs comes out to the paths

The trees make sound of the spring breeze

Blooming flowers spreading sweet scents

Birds and butterflies with their colorful feathers

Enjoy the beauty with new sights and spirits

Infatuated in love in this new world

I see and come back to my work

From the very noon this garland made for you

Dear, how can I reach?

I know you are on the other side waiting for me.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

03/04/2020

My Bygone Pastime

Chemicals sprayed all over the fields

On the wheat seeds

At the evening when they came back

All the hens, cocks and ducks at a time got attacked

Made me stunned, thundered down

They are lying dead before my eyes

Feel offended I failed to take the right care

When all my poultries became empty

I only stared at the sky

They’re floating on the white-colored feathers

I see the ducks on the water

I see the hens and cocks on my yard

Still now after so many years

O my love, can I let you go?  

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

04/04/2020

How I am

How do you do?

It’s difficult to answer straight ‘fine’

My heart is losing, breaching and beating

Though no singing or beating the drums outside

You do, I do and certainly we do our daily walks of life

But the strength of mind the gig gag lights inside or outside

We really miss, an unknown fear hovers around

My brother is dying

My sister is dying

What is it flying around?

Bounds all to stay at home

How many more days should we stay

No one advances to make it out

Pains my heart

Listless to work

Can I say I am safe and sound?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

05/04/2020

I Stand Still

The sky seems to be deep and darker

A windy light peeps through

The leafs of the trees growing greener than yesterday

A silent breeze makes the leafs dance 

The birds are flying here and there

Busy with the nestles in the nest to feed and care

I stand still

No storm or thundering to become worried

Softens the world day by day

My heart leaps up with joy

A heavy rainfall we may enjoy

The fields clothed with the green grasses

We can walk through all the way

The moon always smiles on. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

06/04/2020