"Old Ladies and Old Men," "Ghost Thoughts" and "Devil in the Night"

Old Ladies and Old Men The good songs have drifted away. The voices of the legends—our heroes, our own younger selves— fade, thinning with age into that hush of holy silence and the grail is unknown— the meaning of all these songs and days slipping through our hands. With every grain of salt we are reminded of our own smallness, our moments just echo in the hallway of memory. We are just old ladies and old men. With a harmonica, spit-slicked and old, pressed to the heart for comfort. They still cheer before the last song— a crowd of faces remembered, some gone, some near. Ghosts gather around each trembling note. His voice is weak, but it's still Bob Dylan. Still singing "The Garden Party" just before the age of 84. Better to fade as legend than to sit and rust. Or a man an old friend, maybe ourselves— still in exploration, seeking God from the watchtower, seeking God in exploration. Let the chips fall, where the old finally rest.   Ghost Thoughts   Ghosts are criminals of the wind. They slip beneath your skin, unseen. Your memories of them become our nightmares. They yell at you for everything. You are, and you were. Playground laughter cut short. Ghosts record the circuitry of your mind. The computer of your thoughts. They capture your negativity. They haunt your fantasies. Search out your past and future. Ghost—shrouded in frayed white linen cloth— hangs from the sagging clothesline. I exhale my last thought drifting, soft as pond water fog— or a frog without a croak no lily pads, nor land, nor water. Vanishing into the hush of dusk. Yet in the marrow of your bones, I whisper your name— an aching echo that never lets go.   Devil in the Night   Come with me on a brief journey tonight. It has already started, movie time, popcorn. The devil is on this night. The devil wears pajamas. PJ’s with holes in them. My brain feels fried, nowhere to go. I’m panned in and isolated, sealed. My breath comes out smelling like cinnamon sticks. My words are lethargic on my vocal cords. Am I just a condiment or a legendary troll? Sometimes I feel disjointed, like a boulder in my brain. A cranium dwarf. Poetry or fiction, I feel like a mess. Mine in a cereal bowl, spoon in the mouth, screaming no way out. I talk to myself; there is no audience. I shift gears. I drift into insanity, outside hospital windows. Snowflakes, thin but steady. The lines keep growing longer. White shadows in dark tree limbs haunt me. Fingertips extend out to touch me in the cold. Frightened, I fell asleep. My head is near my writing pad. My old cassette tape recorder is disabled. By Michael Lee Johnson