Carl Sandburg, Idols in the Sand, and Galesburg Shacks

Idols are what idols appear to be.
Idols are men that idols are.
They’re the sleep walkers,
the self-styled hobo's,
saints in small villages
people living alone.
Birthright of saviors, railroad men, famous poets.
Birthright of little places, big hearts,
speakers of cold skillets and dainty bedrooms.
Folk songs fall, black and white,
divided cracks celebrated brick streets.
They form modest communities,
quiet spaces, momentous churches
named my denominations and breed?
rail tracks divide their ideologies, brands
of beer, run down shacks divide their lives.
Property vultures, ex Maytag mongrels’
Maytag treason, traders of trade, traitors to Mexico,
walk simple steps away.
Jobbers walk and jobs move away.
Streets quiet lights, slate deserted
house shacks of many races abandoned, colors
form rows PMS color charts leading to his birth place;
folk songs, Swedish heritage, Remembrance Rock,
savior of a poetic dream born in a slum.
Just a roadside museum,
mile and a half walk from downtown,
summer sweat, drenching summer heat,
Galesburg railroad days June 2010, ending?
beginning humidity, snippets of beer bottles
tossed around, Saturday night drunks
lie in flush untailored grass.
A three room shack, half-pint bedroom,
curtains merge the window with sun rays,
more summer heat.
Idols grow as children, their ambitions?
toss them away.
Idols are what idols appear to be.
Idols are men that idols are.

-2010-

Anecdote: this poem is based on a real travel experience to Galesburg, IL in June 2010.
The poem was developed from the vivid pictures and images taken my Carol Marcus, a devoted friend of many years.

Even as Evening
By Michael Lee Johnson

Even as evening
approaches night-
dandelions shake
dust loose from their yellow-
a robin pulls
the last red worm
from the moist,
but callous
ground,
shadows fade
into fresh fall night-
small creatures
with trumpet
sounds dominant
the adjacent
woods.
A virtuoso!

-2010-

Sundown, Fall
By Michael Lee Johnson

Fall, everything is turning yellow and golden.
No wind, Indian summer, bright day,
wind charms with Indian enchantment,
last brides before winter snow,
grass growth slows down,
bushes cut back with chills,
haven of the winter, grows legs,
learns baby steps, pushes itself
up slowly against my patio door,
and says, “soon, soon, I’ll be there.”
Winter is sweeping up what’s left of fall;
making room for shorter days, longer nights.
Echoes of a new season.

-2010-

Little White Cat Paws
By Michael Lee Johnson

we
all
walk
with
padded
little
white
cat
paws?
squeamishly live
with
small-scaled
thoughts
and injured wings,
pocket-sized
words,
expressions
exaggerated?
edged
within seconds?
till
the
small
black
box arrives,
sobering,
stores death
like angel or devil
in cahoots,
kitten and man alike,
annihilated-
clock stops
archives in place,
zap the last whistle.

-2010-