Poem by R.D. Johnson: “Just a Scratch”

photo by Tengyart on Unsplash.com

Just a Scratch

See you used to scratch me
That first one showed the lines 
First contact, first strike
Caught off guard by your words and actions 
And how they both affect me physically and mentally
The next time you went for blood
The blood permeated the layers of the subcutaneous and cutaneous 
Oxidized and oozed 
You knew how go take things up a notch
You became a mosquito that was drunk off blood
Wanted to be the life of the party
Knowing the very thing you were doing was killing you inside too
But you still continued
You finally scratched me hard that you went deep 
The scars from before reopened as the pain and suffering 
Became your fountain of youth 
But for me it was getting old
To me, it was to time to scratch em back
And let me feel the rage
Of doing what you’ve done to me
All these years
And I just sat there and let you do it
I look at the mental scars I have left 
As the memories of where I was 
And how far I came
And I’m glad to see those marks
Are fading away 

2 new poems by Michael Igoe : “Inborn” & “Funeral Lilies”

           

Inborn

Underneath a chassis,
a white glove touches
greasy stacks of boxes.
The bullets inside them
spill out on cold ground.
A file of sultry generals
assembles in a building.
In the shape of a Basilica.
Scarved girls
at work within
are busy washing
their china dishes.
To find themselves
not quite so lonely
when dishwashing.

 Funeral Lilies

Necessary arrangements
are taking up more time.
Following rigid orders ,
we pick those flowers that bloom in skeletons.
Straightening creases,
ones real or imagined.
We read the rumors,
in the gossip column
we put them all down
to a misunderstanding.
Thanks to St. Jude,
for favors granted.
He’s close to the kin,
who perish among us.
But ones assembled,
give him due respect.
It seemed odd,
to think it’s sad,
achieving a thrill.
Using only one word
that soothes our soul.
At a hot dog pit
south of 95th
we will arrive
at his funeral.
We meet brazen kings making no mistakes
about power wielded
A Kansas City woman
calls a broom a rocket.
To match things up
she took a chance
to stand in line
so she can shake
the mayor’s hand.
She sure hoped he’d die
when he stole the election.
They both sit in the grandstands,
between the one eyed vagabonds.

Michael igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston.Numerous works appear in journals online and in print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), flyovercountryliterarymagazine.com, linktre.e/derailleurpress. Anthologies:The Poets of 2020, Avalanches In Poetry(Fevers of the Mind Press).National Library of Poetry Editor’s Choice Award 1997, Feather Pen Blog Best Poem of 2020. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

A Blossom For Your Song: Poetry by Samantha Terrell

Samantha Terrell

A Blossom For Your Song

We discovered
Bossa Nova when
The forsythia and
Weeping cherry were
In bloom,
Outside the living room

Where you
Swirled me
Round – a blur of cream and blue
Upholstery –
Dips
And Spins

Made easy
On the hardwood floor.
You’ve always been a better dancer than me.
I’m a petal in your
Palm,
A blossom for your song.