Poetry

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Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL. after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Vietnam War era. He is a freelance writer, and poet. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria Africa, India, United Kingdom, Thailand, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Michael Lee Johnson is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/. He is a member of The Illinois Authors Directory. Illinois Center for the Book: http://www.illinoiscenterforthebook.org/directory.html
He has published 145 poems in 2007 to date. He is the author of: The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom. http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. The book is also listed at Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble. Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/. He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy, http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/ ; and Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems at, http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/. Both publications are now open for submissions. Mp3 Audio files available on request for any of the poems.

Michael Lee Johnson
60143-1542
PO Box 486
Itasca, IL 60143
Ph/Fax (630) 467-1332/30
E-mail: [email protected]
Or: [email protected]



Manic is the Dark Night
(photo to go with this poem on request)


Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It is here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
“Don’t smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?”
I fell jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Damn I just feel happy!
Back into the wood of somberness
back into the twigs,
sedated the psychiatrist
Scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:
“mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe
lithium, do I need to call the police?”
No sir, back into the dark woods I go.
Controlled, to get my meds.
Twist and rearrange my smile,
crooked, to fit the immediate need.
Deep in my forest
the trees have turned black again.
To satisfy the conveyer.
The Lord of the dark wood.


-2007-


Bird Feeder

Baby,
born
just
a
sparrow-
first flight
from balcony
to tree limb.
A chip of corn falls
from the feeder
to the ground.

-2007-


Mother, Edith, at 98
(Version #2 Aug. 15th 2007)

in a nursing home
blinded with
macular degeneration.
I come to you,
blurred eyes, crystal mind,
countenance of grace.
as yesterday’s winds
I have consumed you
and taken you away.
"Where did God disappear to?"
You murmured
over and over again
like running water
or low voices
in prayer:
“Oh, there He is,
angel of the coming.”

-2007-


I Brew in Broth

When the silence of my
life tickles in darkness
delves into my daily routine
caught in my melancholy music
at times, not exact;
then exuberant auto racing playing
at times, not exact;
(a new poem published or a kick in the ass)
kick smacks like tornado alley
in the tomato can
left over paste
of my emotions
at times, not exact;
I realize the split of legacy,
of loyalty on its knees fractured
like a comma or sentence fragment,
naked like a broken egg
between friendship and hatred,
I stew like beef then broth
simmering
sort of liked, sort of hated,
not exact.

-2007-


Poem From My Grave

Don’t bring the rosary beads
it’s too damn late for doing repetitions.
Eucharist, I can handle the crackers and wine;
I love the Lord just like you.
Catholicism circles itself with rituals--
ground hogs and squirrels dancing with rosary beads,
naked in the sun and the night, eating the pearls
and feeling comfortable about it.
Rituals and rosary beads are indigestible
even the butterflies go coughing in the farmer’s cornfields..
Cardinal George, Chicago, would choke on the damn things;
some of his priest would have thought it a gay orgasm or piece
remote found in scripture from Sodam & Gamora.
But my bones in ginger dust lie near a farm in DeKalb, Illinois
where sunset meshes corn with a yellow gold glow like rich teeth.
My tent is with friends there we said prayers privately like silent
moonlight. Farmers touch the face of God each morning after just
one cup of Folgers coffee Columbian blend,
or pancakes made with water and batter, sparse on the sugar.
Sometimes I would urinate on the yellow edge of flowers,
near the tent, late at night, before the hayride, speak
to the earth and birds like gods.
Never did I pull the rosary beads from my pocket.
It’s too late, damn it, for rosary beads and repetitions.


-2007-

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