© Carl Martin Johnson, All rights reserved

 
 

THE SOLDIER’S MOON
By Carl Martin Johnson


Full, warm-white overhead
Like an old friend smiling down.
Laughing soft as its happiness spread
Over the young man who lay on the ground.

The soldier leaned back on the grass,
Young face nodding back to the moon.
Watching the plump orb pass
Like a slow-moving circus balloon.

He dreamed without closing his eyes.
He did not want to lose the moon’s gaze,
While he conjured up old nighttime skies
Before war….in happier days.

The face of the moon was transformed.
Its features became that of a girl.
He teared and felt his heart warmed
By the memory of a pretty blond curl.

In his mind, he flew up to meet her.
They twirled dancing in the midst of the stars.
Like a princess he wanted to treat her,
As they spun between Venus and Mars.

Then he kissed her goodbye in his dream,
And came back to earth content.
He had ridden back on a moonbeam.
It was the best moment ever he had spent.

He thought up his thanks to the jolly bright sphere.
He had never had such a night.
He would eternally hold this night dear.
A reward at the end of a fight.

Now the guns boomed again all around.
Though they had seemed silent before.
It was odd, he had not heard a sound.
He would try again to mute their fierce roar.

When he pulled the sweet silence back,
He relaxed and looked once more above.
The glow of the moon in the black
Covered him in a blanket of love.

Heavy eyelids began to close.
He thought to rise lest he fall asleep.
Then he jerked like one who suddenly knows
There is an appointment he has to keep.

The blood had emptied in rivers
From the ragged stumps where legs had been.
His body quaked in cold death shiver,
Fighting a battle he could not win.

Still, he smiled up at the moon again,
Grateful for the help in his dying.
It was good to have a friend,
To make such a time less trying.

 

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THE ARTIST’S EYES
By Carl Martin Johnson


I mixed the paints on my palette,
Creating a newborn tone.
A shade far brighter than my eyes met
When the sun’s gold was first shown.

I liked it, so I used it.
Not a copy, a better part.
I had seen the light and fused it
With emotion from my heart.

What had ripened the scene planted in my eye?
What had fertilized it to bloom?
What had caused a brilliant butterfly
To emerge from a dull cocoon?

Every smile that I’ve been gifted,
Every baby I’ve heard cry,
Every song that my heart lifted,
Filters all that enters through my eye.

I have known, too, sorrow and pain.
They are also catalysts for art.
Evil and Good both needed to explain
That all in life must play their part.

If I could reach far down into my soul,
Use what I find to help me see,
I could paint the universe whole,
The Face of God with my artistry.

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TOUCH ME

By Carl Martin Johnson

Touch me.
Let your fingertips run smooth
Across the muscles of my chest.
Let their tender motions soothe
Scars from battles blessed.

Touch me.
Your lips are full and warm.
Move them soft across my brow.
Let them draw out thoughts of harm,
And only visions of love allow.

Touch me.
Moist eyes caressing all my length,
Down my body complete,
Admiring my hard muscled strength,
Stopping only at my feet.

Touch me.
Stretch your body beside mine,
Silk on silk our skins will glide
Love’s sensations, sweet and fine.
There is no part of us we’ll hide.

Touch me.
With that which is most you.
Your soul into mine flow,
Making one worth more than two,
Then paradise we’ll know.

Touch me.

 

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THE AWAITED
By Carl Martin Johnson


She lay spread beneath the sun
Like a willing lover waiting
For that very special one,
And the joy of loving mating.

But her darling was not man.
She was moved by something more.
Yet she loved as only woman can,
From deep in her heart’s core.

It was an energy she awaited,
Like a new and lustful bride.
For this she was created.
For this moment she would have died.

She felt the spirit enter.
Felt it spread and take control.
Now God was at her center.
She writhed in orgasm of the soul.

 

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MICHAEL
By Carl Martin Johnson


I am Michael, Champion of God.
His Kingdom I keep from harm.
I am obedient to the Father’s nod.
I am His strong right arm.

My birth was an exploding star.
It lit the cosmos bright.
My kin and I, formed as we are,
Made day from what was night.

Our Father loved us and trusted well,
With free will to love Him back.
There was Heaven but no Hell.
There was nothing we would lack.

My brother, who was named for Light,
Was always at my side.
He was left and I was right.
We were our Father’s pride.

We would ride on Paradise’ Rainbow.
Galaxy to galaxy we’d fly.
Through God’s own private window
We’d escape to Heaven’s sky.

But with free will comes power.
With power there can be sin.
My brother, one sad hour,
Allowed sin to begin.

It was our Father he defied,
And I fought him for that fault.
I would have rather in great pain died
Than have committed that assault.

For eternity he will pay,
Yet I will suffer, too.
I am lonely since the day
I damned the brother that I knew.

 

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WARRIOR’S LAMENT
By Carl Martin Johnson

Are angels crying for me,
Or is it only rain?
Will their tears restore me?
Can they heal my pain?

My soul is torn and battered,
Through no fault but my own.
Many dreams of mine are shattered.
I’m left to walk alone.

The path I’ve chosen is hard and wild.
Adrenaline pollutes my blood.
By the civilized I am reviled.
I would be different if I could.

Yet, Life has made love to me,
Held me hot in her embrace.
Like no woman who ever knew me.
And I’ve seen both sides of her face.

I will not admit defeat.
My self-pity is wasted.
My cup has held both bitter and sweet.
All of Life I’ve tasted.
 
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THE HORROR
By Carl Martin Johnson


The horror froze my soul that day.
It held me in its trance.
Hell’s demons all came out to play.
I joined Satan for a dance.

The thumping of artillery shells
That tore brave men apart,
Cordite and human entrail smells
Petrified my heart.

Bloody ballet, chorus screaming,
Orchestra of deadly fire,
Eternity of nightmare dreaming,
The field a blazing funeral pyre.

The butchered lay in pained convulsion,
Begging God to let them die.
I was too busy killing for revulsion,
Too busy bleeding to weep and sigh.

Then silence, thick and sickly-sweet,
Slowly oozed across the ground,
Until the quiet was complete,
Save for low-moaned dying sound.

I saw we had won the fight,
But victory cries would wait.
My soul was sickened at the sight.
And I was too tired to hate.

I knew then what Man could do,
I could see our vicious aura.
We would slaughter all before we’re through.
The Horror! The Horror! The Horror!

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GOODBYES

By Carl Martin Johnson

Goodbyes are a blessing,
Though they leave us in pain.
They have us confessing.
That’s a growing heart’s gain.

We learn how to treasure
The best of life’s time
Of love, joy and pleasure.
The magic, the sublime.

We go forward to the new.
To exciting new growth.
What is done, what is due:
We value them both.

No tears should be shed
For that which is gone.
Until we are dead,
We must keep moving on.


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FRIEND
By Carl Martin Johnson


I saw you crawling for me,
Though my eyes were filled with blood.
You would fight right through an army
To save me dying in the mud.

Your arms around my chest
As you pulled me from harm’s way,
Made me feel that I was blessed
To have you with me this hard day.

For a while your caring halted
All the terror and the pain.
My spirit was exalted.
I would live to fight again.

And, in spite of Fate’s decision
To bring me to an end,
I could never at all envision
A more faithful, loving friend.

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THE COURTESAN
By Carl Martin Johnson


Her body, slick with passion,
Slid down his strong chest.
She loved him, in her fashion,
At least above all the rest.

But, even as she pleased him,
Her mind was years away.
While her mouth and fingers teased him,
She thought of another day.

Only a girl, but wet with thirst
For love’s first full encounter.
He was her love, he was her first.
He lay gently to mount her.

Youth and love fueled their lust,
As if never would it be sated.
She cried his name with each thrust
Into the fire they created.

He was the true love she sold
For a life of comfort and ease.
Now she saw herself lonely
When she grew too old to please.

Oh, the day was not yet.
She was still much desired.
And her future would be met
With the acceptance required.

Meanwhile her skills brought her gold,
Which she saved for tomorrow.
Against the time she was old,
Only gold to fight sorrow.

The boy she had forsaken
Would live on in her mind.
The love he had taken
She would never again find.


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NIGHT WIND
By Carl Martin Johnson
 
At night I whisper secret things
That no living soul can hear.
Until the morning Qetzal sings,
I soothe the jungle’s fear.

My moist breath awakens ghosts
Who sleep beneath the forest floor,
And stifles the roving jaguar’s boasts
Cutting short his coughing roar.

The barranca clears a path for me,
Fearing to incite my ire.
Lest my gentle breeze turn stormy,
My lightning setting jungle afire.

Crawling beasts halt when they hear me,
Though my warning be ever so slight.
They have been given the wisdom to fear me.
Only I rule the jungle at night.

Foolish man, if he risk my domain,
Treads softly should he wish to survive,
My spears are in the monsoon rain,
My tigre will devour him alive.

I swoop down when day comes to end.
Neither angel nor demon am I.
Fear me, even so. I am Night Wind.
I rule until sun flames the sky.


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THE OLD MAN DIED
By Carl Martin Johnson

He had met the dawn for many years,
Had the sun smile back at him.
This day, he looked out through his tears,
And watched that star grow dim.

This would be the last time
He would see the orb turn gold.
He was dying for the great crime
Of living hard and growing old.

Life had been mostly good.
He had no real regret.
He’d change a few things if he could.
A thing or two he would forget.

He would not dwell on memories now.
He would await the transformation.
He smiled and wondered how
He would deal with jubilation.

In a moment he would know.
It had all come down to this.
Wherever he would go
It was an appointment he could not miss.

He took one final breath
Then the old man died.
He was not afraid of death.
It was the dawn that cried.
 
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GOD’S SOUL
By Carl Martin Johnson

I looked into God’s soul today.
He opened up to me.
I thought perhaps I’d find the way
To reach Eternity.

He left me on my own.
After all, I am a Man.
With what I was being shown,
I should understand the Plan.

So I set forth into His Being.
My eyes were open wide.
But I was so busy seeing
I lost sight of why I tried.

My human eyes had failed.
They were an obstacle to vision.
They had to be unveiled
To see with any precision.

My spirit I held stilled.
Shut my eyes and looked inside.
Suddenly my heart was filled.
I knew what the world would hide.

I was within God’s Mind.
I saw the Mystery.
What He wanted me to find.
What I saw…..was Me.
 
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TOUCH ME IN THE MORNING
By Carl Martin Johnson

Touch me in the morning.
Let love begin our day.
Life can end with no warning.
Let’s not throw our time away.

Gently stroke me, darling.
Make me tremble in the dawn.
May the sun never see us quarreling.
By sunset we could be gone.

Let our passion wake us.
Set on fire our imagination.
Our clinging bodies will take us
On a ride of sweet sensation.

A gentle kiss before we rise.
A soft embrace before we part.
A deep look into each other’s eyes
To carry in our heart.
 
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MADNESS
By Carl Martin Johnson

Sanity I found wanting.
It did not suit my needs.
Lunacy, while daunting,
Inspires nobler deeds.

I’ve tried to be like other men.
Somehow, I never could.
Though I used both sword and pen,
I was seldom understood.

At first, I took the path well lit,
But, I found I could not see.
It took the flame of my own wit
To find true living’s key.

The world looks different through my eyes.
That is something I can’t change.
So it comes to me as no surprise,
That most people think me strange.

Yet I pray I’ll find the doorway
To Truth and what lies beyond.
Perhaps mine is just one more way
To discover what God has spawned.
 
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THE CATWALK

By Carl Martin Johnson

I stand one side, you on the other.
If we meet in the middle
Will we be enemy or brother?
Can we solve the riddle?

I am looking at the sunrise.
Your eyes see it set.
Neither one of us is all-wise.
Perhaps it’s time we met.

On this catwalk our views might blend.
We may see far ahead.
If not, we both may end,
And our visions be those of the dead.

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