Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson
March 7, 2008 by alonetogetheronline
A poet, and freelance writer, Michael Lee Johnson is self-employed in advertising, and selling custom promotional products. 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. He has published two chapbooks of poetry. A contributor in the Silver Boomers poetry anthology about aging baby boomers, by Silver Boomer Books, he resides in Itasca, Illinois, United States. He lived in Canada during the Vietnam era and will be published as a contributor poet in the anthology Crossing Lines: Poets Who Came toCanada in the Vietnam War Era publication scheduled for early 2008. His literary work has been published in many countries aroud the globe. Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/. He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy, http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/ ; Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems , http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/; A Tender Touch & A Shade of Blue, http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/; and Wizards Of The Wind, http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/. All publications are now open for submissions. Audio MP3 of poems, of Mr. Johnson, are available on request. Manic is the Dark Night
By Michael Lee Johnson 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 feel 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. I 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 By Michael Lee Johnson 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 #3 Nov. 27th 2007) By Michael Lee Johnson I come to you with your blurry eyes, crystal sharp mind, your countenance of grace– as yesterday’s winds I have chosen to consume you and take you away. “Oh, where did Jesus disappear to, she murmured, over and over again,” in a low voice dripping words like a leaking faucet: “Oh, there He is my my Angel of the coming.” -2007- I Brew in Broth By Michael Lee Johnson 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-
Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
