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, Republic of Sierra Leone, Thailand, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Michael Lee Johnson is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers. He is a member of The Illinois Authors Directory, Illinois Center for the Book. He is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom.
He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy and Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems. Both publications are now open for submissions.
Manic is the Dark Night 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-
Review of The Lost American
the Michael Lee Johnson Website
Poetic Legacy
Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems