© Carl Martin Johnson, All rights reserved

 
 

THE POETRY OF YOUR FINGERS’ TOUCH
By Carl Martin Johnson

Your slender finger tracing
A love note on my chest.
Sends my lover’s heart racing
To be so sensuously caressed.

Then your fingers play a love song,
Making my whole body dance.
My yearning growing so strong.
I must yield to the erotic trance.

My abdomen tenses and pulls taut
As your nails graze light my skin.
Too strong my passion to be fought.
Come too far, it must begin.

Your fingers like a poet’s pen,
An artist’s inspired brush.
I tremble everywhere they've been,
My body hot with sensuous blush.

You tap me lightly on the lips,
Sparking the fuse that leads to fire.
Your poetic fingertips
Have created a sonnet of desire.

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SACRIFICE
By Carl Martin Johnson

In a moment I’ll feel bullets bite.
I’ll feel pain and then I’ll die.
This will be my final fight.
I’ll be dead, but I’ll know why.

I am frightened, but I won’t run.
I will face what destiny holds.
I will brave the enemy’s gun,
Do my part in what unfolds.

My fight will be to win,
No matter the price I pay.
My country and my kin
Rely on me today.

So remember me tomorrow,
That I have chosen what I do.
It is my honor, not my sorrow,
That I give my life for you.

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I SAW A SOLDIER DIE TODAY
By Carl Martin Johnson

I saw a solder die today,
But not on a battlefield.
He had slowly wasted away
From wounds that had not healed.

There were ragged scars on his worn face.
Those wounds were not what killed him.
His life was drained by the fanged embrace,
From the vampire of memories that filled him.

He had seen many comrades die,
Disemboweled, bloody and torn.
Yet, he kept fighting, head held high,
Honoring the uniform he’d worn.

He came home a different man,
A stranger to his friends.
To know a warrior only another can,
Anyone else only pretends.

He drifted away as the years went by,
Until he was alone.
He had lost, without knowing why,
Everything he’d known.

Beneath lonely highway bridges he slept,
Finding shelter from the rain.
Fewer and fewer of life’s recollections he kept,
Because they mostly caused him pain.

This morning I happened to see him here,
On the bench where I am now.
I came close, holding back a tear,
To ask him why and how.

He spoke softly for a little while.
Told me what his life had been.
Then he closed his eyes, and with a smile
Dropped his unshaven chin.

From this sleep he will not wake.
He will rest untroubled at last.
I said a prayer for his soul’s sake,
Asked God to hold him fast.

There are more like him with wounded mind,
Warriors with pain deep as any other.
I will find them and be kind.
Because, like him, they are my brother.

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FALLEN WARRIORS
By Carl Martin Johnson

I visited their graves today,
But that’s not where they are.
They are standing vigil far away,
On the fields where they fought their war.

They have leave from Michael’s Legion,
Where warriors are acclaimed,
To depart the celestial region
For the place their soul was claimed.

They gather with their brothers,
Recalling earthly deeds,
These sons of proud-sad mothers,
These best of all our breeds.

They would fight for us forever.
It is our freedom warriors win.
Never abandoning that endeavor,
They would give their lives again.

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FLYING INTO THE SUN
By Carl Martin Johnson

I am full of life today.
A new phase has begun.
I’ll grab my soul and be on my way,
Flying straight up to the sun.

I awakened to a sunbeam,
Hitting right between my eyes.
It saved me from a bad dream,
And delivered a fine surprise.

Suddenly my woes seemed minor.
A gladness swelled my heart.
I was meant for something finer
In life, a special part.

So I’ll climb the sunbeam to its source.
Forget small worries, spoiled romance,
Leave my lone waltz to endorse
A far, far larger dance.

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WANDERING
By Carl Martin Johnson

One step followed another,
Not knowing which way to take.
Left foot, then his brother,
Trading places in his wake.

He had awakened with the dawn,
In a house devoid of joy.
She would be forever gone.
There was no more to destroy.

They had built the house together.
They had raised their children here.
It could withstand any weather.
But it could not keep her near.

He would set the livestock free.
They would go where they were wanted.
He could have let them be,
But then, like him, they would be haunted.

He would walk instead of ride.
His old mare was far too lame.
He’d let pure chance be his guide.
To him it was all the same.

Maybe he’d meet up with her
Somewhere down the road.
Not really likely to occur.
Not that much good luck owed.

Best thing would be forgetting.
That would take a while.
He could do it he was betting,
All except her smile.

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TORNADO
By Carl Martin Johnson

Swirling, untamed, bronco wind.
Swooping, angry, from the sky.
Slashing wild, dark Satan’s friend,
Bellowing hideous dragon cry.

Snapping, gnashing, tempest teeth,
Ripping the land with stormy fangs.
Ravaging all that lies beneath
To satisfy your hunger pangs.

Death rides on your spinning back,
Holding your lightning for his reins.
Hear his whip of thunder crack,
Announcing swiftly coming pains.

You scourge our land.
You sweep it bare.
Yet, we will stand.
By God, we swear.

You are Death Bringer.
We are Life.
You are Requiem Singer.
But we withstand your strife.

Hit us again, Evil Blowing.
You will never make us end.
We spit at you, and this be knowing:
We will always rise again.

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THE DEAD PATROL
By Carl Martin Johnson

Not all of us died outright,
Only the lucky few.
The rest of us still had to fight,
More suffering to do.

The screams of shock and pain,
The tracers’ swift green arc,
Blood spurting, mixed wiith rain,
Torment and terror in the dark.

Sudden silence, hard and pure,
And the cordite’s acrid smell.
The disease that has no cure,
Death’s muted tolling bell.

Then gunfire over wounded moans.
Each shot an agony ended.
Awaiting, frightened and alone,
The bullet for us intended.

We lay war’s art when day came light,
Bloodless pale and milk-filmed eyes.
Patient for the fall of night
To unleash our soul’s to rise.

Now in the dark we must patrol,
In the place between two lives.
Nor God nor Satan thirst to control
That part of us which survives.

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THE COMPANY OF MY KIND
By Carl Martin Johnson

Many have died before me.
Many will die behind.
But Heaven saves a place for me,
With others of my kind.

We are all initiated,
Baptized by blood and war.
We are those that God created
So the rest could reach the Star.

Those of my brothers dead,
And we whose time will come,
Will march, archangels at our head,
To the beat of the Celestial Drum.

Forever we will defend
The souls that God created
Until this world’s end,
And the Paradise awaited.

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THE WIND
By Carl Martin Johnson

The wind is the Earth’s crier.
She carries many tales.
All news, good or dire,
Brought by breeze and gales.

She finds me as I walk the shore.
She rolls wave-sprayed from the sea,
Her warnings only fools ignore,
Her counsel to stay or flee.

In the morning her tongue gently strokes
With her whispers light,
Heaven’s messages she invokes
To lift me, knowing, from the night.

The coming day may bring a storm,
Perhaps a hurricane.
The wind will wisely choose her form,
According to what she must explain.

Before I sleep she sings to me,
Stories chanted through the trees.
And while I dream she clings to me,
Storing everything she sees.

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YOUR SKIN
By Carl Martin Johnson

Your skin is flawless beauty,
Unblemished, soft and clean.
You have a goddess’ duty
To strike awe with what is seen.

You stand in splendid nakedness before me.
I fall in worship to my knees.
You will do what I ask for me,
And you know that I will please.

My kisses cannot be controlled.
All your loveliness they seek.
Every part of my body bold,
Yet my self-control is weak.

You lean back and sigh.
I please with my mouth’s prayer.
Your tremors do not belie
Ecstasy you can hardly bear.

Your fingers entwine my hair.
I am your worshipper endeared
To his sweet goddess fair.
Now all inhibitions disappeared.

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WAITING
By Carl Martin Johnson

The same table every night,
Weather fair or rain.
In the corner on the right,
Expression a blend of hope and pain.

Sixty years this vigil kept.
Her dress had never changed.
People had all come to accept
That she was harmlessly deranged.

In her heart she held a dream.
It was the only world she knew
You could see her blue eyes gleam,
Because to her it was all true.

Her love had said to meet
So they could run away.
She had her suitcase at her feet.
The same one every day.

Her smile brightened as she recalled
His words and tender kiss,
How his young charm had enthralled
On an evening just like this.

She thought she had misheard the day,
But she was certain of the place.
So every night here she would stay
Awaiting his embrace.

He would come one day she knew.
Her heart was full, anticipating.
His love for her was true.
She would make sure she was waiting.

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THE WOLF AND THE FLOWER
By Carl Martin Johnson

The winter had been cold and long.
He was weak and dizzy with hunger.
He would need fresh meat to become strong,
And the hunt was harder than when he was younger.

The trail was ripe with scent.
The stag was close ahead.
But his energy was spent.
If no kill soon, he would be dead.

A new smell made him freeze.
It was not an aroma that he sought.
Though one that seemed to please,
His attention fully caught.

Ahead bloomed a Spring flower,
Breathing out the perfume of living.
He inhaled its vital power,
Felt the welcome it was giving.

Then he continued on the trail,
Knowing part of life was death.
He would kill or he would fail,
Thinking of the flower’s breath.

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INVISIBLE
By Carl Martin Johnson

Through life invisible I glide.
I am not who you see.
I hide myself inside.
My outside is not me.

You think I see you through these eyes,
But for true sight I need none.
My face is only a disguise
For confusing everyone.

Inside I keep the universe,
Where God and angels dwell.
We meet in there and converse
About things I cannot tell.

Should I want to really know you,
I will let you in.
My secrets I will show you,
My virtue and my sin.

Meanwhile, I’ll be hidden,
So you will never see,
Until the day you’re bidden
To become close to me.

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THE WARRIOR’S LIVES
By Carl Martin Johnson

I was first slain in honest battle
Many centuries ago.
I heard my own death rattle
As my spirit was let go.

But no Heaven opened to me,
No place for my soul to rest.
Only a knowing that came to me
That I had been charged with a Divine quest.

I move from life to life.
Each time I die, reborn.
Enduring pain and strife,
My body ripped and torn.

I choose the side, but not the fight.
That is dictated by Fate,
But if there be a clear-cut right
To that I will dedicate.

Blood I see in rivers.
I hear men’s dying screams.
Bodies in death throe shivers,
While awake or in my dreams.

This is my Purgatory.
My purpose is to be learning
To end Man’s awful story
Of butchery, pillage, burning.

I am to find why my fellow man
Has need of those like me.
Then we can make a plan
Which will set my specter free.

We will make a way to live
So the bravest fight no wars
Rather use what they have to give
Leading Mankind to the stars.

When my blood flows again, vermillion,
Spilled by the very men I slay,
When the dead are near a billion,
I will beg God for that day.

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ONE-LEGGED DANCER
By Carl Martin Johnson

Her gown was royal blue.
It loved her body, lithe and long.
Every muscle moved on cue
To the music of the song.

Her partner held her lightly,
Gave her freedom as she twirled.
Her wide smile sparkled as brightly
As the moon lighting up her world.

The realm of beauty claimed her.
She was its Minister of Grace.
She ignored that Life had maimed her.
She was the goddess of her space.

The orchestra paid homage true,
Courtiers to their Queen.
And she accepted as her due
Their praise for what was seen.

When the music ended,
She paused to take a bow.
Her performance had been splendid,
And no one questioned how.

She had danced with her brave heart.
Would have been perfect even blind.
Her soul made up for her lost part.
She is of the greatest humankind.

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