Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His brand new poetry chapbook with pictures From Which Place the Morning Rises and his new photo version of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at: http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. He has been published in over 22 countries. Email: promomanusa@gmail.com. The author is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/.
Four Poems (August 2009)
Three Poems (April 2009)
Four Poems (August 20 2009. Issue 8.)
Untitled I Walk
Untitled I walk
through life
with a shrink
from Yugoslavia,
whose as large as big foot.
With a novel in one hand,
and shaking his fingers at me
with the other,
he wants to control me with a shovel,
tie me in knot balls, emotional twisters,
and squeeze the emotional pages
out of my life like a twisted sponge.
I retaliate, control him back,
wage war in a vicarious cycle
squeeze his testicles like electrical wires
inside my mind’s eye,
cut his tongue with razors,
dull his clinical words.
Play his game, only better.
He picks up the play phone,
threatens to call the police,
leashing me in my corner
like a trapped dog
forces me to bark
into submission
like a beagle basset bitch.
He treats me with word babble.
I tell him he is a damn Ukrainian idiot.
Peeved off I race
to the parking lot, head to the bushes,
like a blue racer snake threatened,
hop bunny rabbit into my S-10
Chevy pick-up truck,
memo pad in hand,
scribbling ruminating notes
I surrender naked till my next prescription,
untitled I walk.
-2007-
Summer is Dying
Outside summer is dying into fall,
blue daddy petunias sprout ears--
hear the beginning of night chills.
In their yellow window box
they cuddle up and fear death together.
The balcony’s sliding door
is poorly insulated, and a cold draft
creeps in all the spare rooms.
-2007-
South Chicago Night
Night,
south Chicago is filled with drifters,
rats, street walkers, pick-pockets and pimps,
a few whores on 95th street south
fill out the nights agenda;
thousands of tiny fingers of greed snitch
dip into pockets other than their own.
The night air is full of insects and Lake Michigan perch smells.
Ladies gesture to strangers on the streets, “do you want a date?” or
from mysterious window seals, high above
the neon signs, half opened half closed.
Mayor Daily is tucked away in sleeping blankets tonight
in Bridgeview south again from most of the trouble an
the Salvation army.
Parents are surrendering their children for a few
bucks and old silver coins traded earlier
at the pawn shop; some drink
gut-rot Apple Jack wine and act as slave pushers−
but the children roam the streets in designer clothing.
Before the warmth of morning lips grin
and the sidewalks turn open to foot traffic,
the city of Chicago trembles from the taste of delicious dew.
Just a map image and picture frame shadow
of the city with the “big shoulders.”
Mayor Daily is sleeping and ducked away sound tonight.
The big city drifts, and in the morning light, sails boats
lean against the side walls of Lake Michigan sands and shoreline.
-2007-
Cut Grass in Snow
All day long
night is my storm lantern.
I carry it into the farm land
cutting into my harvested emotions
covered by snow
edging them in half
in front of me
see me open and bleeding.
I’m seeded like a small orange
pit me out and devour me
spit the pulp and seed
I step on the jagged edges
of my feelings and sense my pain
cut stretched skin with glass shavings
torture under toes hurt badly with pain.
Pitch the stuff with damn black top
if it makes you feel relieved.
Don't laugh at me like a circus clown
I'm 61 and my dimples show smiles
and crinkles.
This day is a lawn mover
even in December
when machinery is to be shacked up
and covered.
I plow beneath the white surface
cut rotten leaves beneath settled snow.
The aggravation,
the cultivation
the nonsense of hell with a runny nose.
In spring the grass never pops up right.
All day, night is my storm lantern.
-2007-
Table of Contents
Three Poems (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)
Gingerbread Lady
Gingerbread lady,
no sugar or cinnamon spice;
years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.
Crippled mind moves in then out, like an old sexual adventure
blurred in an imagination of fingertip thoughts.
Who in hell remembers the characters?
There was George, her lover, near the bridge at the Chicago River:
she missed his funeral; her friends were there.
She always made feather-light of people dwelling on death,
but black and white she remembers well.
The past is the present; the present is forgotten.
Who remembers Gingerbread Lady?
Sometimes lazy-time tea with a twist of lime,
sometimes drunken-time screwdriver twist with clarity.
She walks in scandals; sometimes she walks in soft night shoes.
Her live-in maid smirks as Gingerbread Lady gums her food,
false teeth forgotten in a custom-imprinted cup
with water, vinegar, and ginger.
The maid died. Gingerbread Lady looks for a new maid.
Years ago, arthritis and senility took their toll.
Yesterday, a new maid walked into the nursing home.
Ginger forgot to rise out of bed;
no sugar, or cinnamon toast.
Harvest Time
A Métis Indian lady, drunk,
hands blanketed over as in prayer,
over a large brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside−approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.
Inside, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity wine sap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears starts
to mount in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets,
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.
Mother, Edith, at 98
Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
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
Angel of the coming."