Michael Lee Johnson (Western Voices 2023)

Bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 275 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. 

 

I Age (V2)

Arthritis and aging make it hard,

I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk

slow, bent forward, fear threats,

falls, fear denouement─

I turn pages, my family albums

become a task.

But I can still bake and shake,

sugar cookies, sweet potato,

lemon meringue pies.

Alone, most of my time,

but never on Sundays,

friends and communion, 

United Church of Canada. 

I chug a few down,

love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale,

Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff.

I can still dance the Boogie-woogie,

Lindy Hop in my living room,

with my nursing care home partner.

Aging has left me with youthful dimples, 

but few long-term promises.

*** 

Crypt in the Sky (V2)

 

Order me up,

no one knows

where this crypt in the sky

like a condo on the 5th floor

suite don’t sell me out

over the years;

please don’t bury me beneath 

this ground, don’t let me decay

inside my time pine casket.

Don’t let me burn to cremate

skull last to turn to ashes.

Treasure me high where no one goes,

no arms reach, stretch.

Building for the Centuries

then just let it fall.

These few precious dry bones

preserved for you, sealed in the cloud

no relocation is necessary,

no flowers need to be planted,

no dusting off that dust each year,

no sinners can reach this high.

Jesus’ heaven, Jesus’ sky.

Note:  Dedicated to the passing of beloved Katie Balaskas.

***

 

Willow Tree Poem (V2)

Wind dancers

dancing to the 

willow wind,

lance-shaped leaves

swaying right to left

all day long.

I’m depressed.

Birds hanging on-

bleaching feathers

out into

the sun.

***

---

Western Voices 2023 :: Setu, February 2023

Michael Lee Johnson (Western Voices 2022)

Bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 248 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for 4 Pushcart Prize awards and 5 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/

 

Frogs 

"Grow grass,

stone frogs,"

written on bathroom walls.

Hippie beads, oodles

colorful acid pills

in dresser draws,

no clothes,

kaleidoscope condoms, 

ostentatious sex.

No Bibles or Sundays

that anyone remembers.

Rochdale College,

Toronto, Ontario 1972,

freedom school, free education.

Makes no sense,

when you're high on a song

"American Women" blasting 

eardrums and police sirens come on.

 

(Note: Rochdale College was patterned after Summerhill School-Democratic "freedom school" in England founded in 1921 by Alexander Sutherland Neill with the belief that the school should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.)

*** 

Poetry Man

 

I’m the poetry man, understand?

Dance, dance, dance to the crystals of night,

healing crystals detox nightmares, night tremors.

Death still comes in the shadow of grief,

hides beneath this blanket of time,

in the heat, in the cold. 

Hold my hand on this journey

you won’t be the first, but

you may be the last.

You and I so many avenues,

ventures & turns, so many years together

one bad incident, violence, unexpected,

one punch, all lights dim out.

***

Keyboard

 

Keyboard dancing, poet-writer,

old bold, ribbons are worn out,

type keys bent out of shape.

40 wpm, high school,

Smith Corona 220 electric ultimately

gave out, carrying case, lost key.

No typewriter repairman anymore.

It is this media, new age apps,

for internet dreams, forged nightmares,

nothing can go wrong, right?

Cagey, I prefer my Covid-19 shots

completed one at a time.

Unfinished poems can wait,

hang start-up like Jesus

ragged on that wooden cross,

revise a few lines at a time;

near the end, complete to finish.

I will touch my way out of this life;

as Elton John says, 

“like a candle in the wind.”

I will be at my keyboard late at night

that moment I pass, my fingertips stop.

---

Setu, April 2022

Poetry: Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089

Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back

 

There's a virus in the air, but I can't see it.

People are dying around me, but I can't save them.

There are spikes pierced in my back,

spasms, but I can't touch them.

Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,

I covet in my prayers.

I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.

Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,

Jesus on that cross.

Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,

told me, "getting old isn't for sissies."

I didn't believe her—

until the first mimic words

out of "Kipper" my new parakeet's mouth,

sitting in his cage alone were 

"Daddy, it's not easy being green."

(Listen to this poem)

***

Leaves in December

 

Leaves, a few stragglers in

December, just before Christmas,

some nailed down crabby

to ground frost,

some crackled by the bite

of nasty wind tones.

Some saved from the matchstick

that failed to light.

Some saved from the rake

by a forgetful gardener.

For these few freedom dancers

left to struggle with the bitterness:

wind dancers

wind dancers

move you are frigid

bodies shaking like icicles 

hovering but a jiffy in the sky,

kind of sympathetic to the seasons,

reluctant to permanently go, rustic,

not much time more to play.

(Listen to this poem)

***

 

Group Therapy

Wind chimes.

It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.

I’m going to lead the group tonight talking

about Rational Emotive Therapy,

belief challenges thought change,

Dr. Albert Ellis.

I’m a hero in my self-worship,

self-infused patient of my pain,

thoughtful, probabilistic atheism

with a slant toward Jesus in private.

Rules roll gently creeping

through my body with arthritis 

a hint of mental pain.

Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,

writing this poem, late as usual.

It’s going to rain, thunder

heavy tonight.

(Listen to this poem)

***

Fiction Girl

(Transition)

 

Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction; 

the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.

Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing

to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,

yours is a manner of words at work. 

Mercury is a god of movement.

A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.

Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.

I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin

in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.

Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,

offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven

or hell, or toss back to earth.

Change is a choice where your energy flows.

No computer gods will help this poetic journey.

May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.

You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.

Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.

Flash fiction lines cross stars.

(Listen to this poem)

***

Cold Gray (V2)

Below the clouds

forming in my eyes,

your soft eyes,

delicate as warm silk words,

used to support the love I held for you.

Cold, now gray, the sea tide

inside turns to poignant foam

upside down separates-

only ghosts now live between us.

Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,

bearing no relation to reality-

my heart is beyond the sea now.

A relaxing breeze sweeps

across the flat surface of me.

I write this poem to you,

neglectfully sacrificing our love.

I leave big impressions

with a terrible hush inside.

Gray bones now bleach with memories,

I’m a solitary figure standing

here, alone, along the shoreline.

(Listen to this poem)
***

---

.Setu, March 2021

Michael Lee Johnson: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)

Bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 2,013 new publications, and his poems have appeared in 40 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites. He has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry in 2015, 1 Best of the Net in 2016, 2 Best of the Net in 2017, and 2 Best of the Net in 2018.  

 

Juice Box Girl

(After Midnight Moments)

 

I'm a juice box girl,

squeeze me, play me

like an accordion,

box-shaped, but gagged edges.

Breathe me inside out,

I'm nude, fruity, fractured,

strawberry melon,

nightshade wine.

Chicago, 3:00 a.m.

somewhere stranded

someone's balcony

memories undefined,

you will find me there

stretched naked, doing

the Electric Slide,

taking morning selfies

upward morning into the sun

then in shutters

closeout pictures

Chiquita bananas, 

those Greek lovers

running late,

Little Village, Greektown

so many men's night faces fading out.

Wash cleanse in me.

I'm no Sylvia Plath

in an oven image of death

I resuscitate; I'm still alive.

 

Sweet Nectar (V2)

 

Daddy wants to see a hummingbird.

Ruby-throated hummingbird

devil in feathers,

Illinois baby come to me,

challenge my feeder

sip up, drain nectar,

no straw needed.

You are a master of your craft.

My thumb your measurements

your brain 1-grain size

white rice the same as mine.

Your vision impeccable 

clean your glasses thick and sticky,

murky migration into your

miracle little boy

prove 2 me you

are the real Wild Bill Hickok

dancing with your Calamity Jane

tick tock, a year there, year back,

3,000 miles across the saltwater

the route to Mexico, traveler

landing South America,

shake the dice toss them

you bandit.

Will you return hummingbird

daddy is on the blender,

mixing new formulas

bright new color nectar.

 

Rochdale College

Freedom School, I Exiled in Time

Toronto, Canada (1972)

 

Chased by this wild, I was a black wolf of time

freedom extinguished me-

I died on borrowed time,

I died on hashish,

I died on snorting cocaine,

I died on the “H” man, heroin,

LSD, acid passed around hallucinated me

into Disneyland without my house slippers.

I nearly jumped 18 floors without hemp,

straight down breaking through plate glass,

Jesus invisible was my invincible Superman.

I nearly died listening to 

American Woman, Guess Who,

they feed me downers for my overdose.

I nearly died in a small room

balling an unknown little bitch from Montreal.

All those little pills in dresser drawers, yellow, pink, and red.

I nearly died, Yonge Street, with hippy beads,

leather purse, belt, fake gold chain, and small pocket change.

I went the way I didn’t know where to go,

searching for heaven ending at entrance to

hell’s gate, Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Let me fluoresce, splatter red on the asphalt

of my exiled heart.

Let me follow the freedom school, 

Summerhill, England, free love.

---

Western Voices 2021 :: Setu, February 2021

Michael Lee Johnson (Western Voices 2020)

Exclusive: Western Voices, 2020: Edited by Scott Thomas Outlar

Bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017/2 Best of the Net 2018. 204 of his poetry videos are now on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. 

I’m a Riverboat Boy,

Poem on Halsted Street (V2)

As sure as church bells

Sunday morning, ringing

on Halsted near State Street, Chicago,

these memories will

be soon forgotten.

I stumble in my life with these words like broken sentences.

I hear and denounce myself in the distance,

mumbling chatter off my lips.

Fragments and chips.

Swearing at the parts of me I can’t see;

walking away rapidly from the spiritual thoughts of you.

I am disjointed, separated from my Christian belief.

I feel like I’m at the bottom of sin hill

playing with my fiddle, flat fisted, and busted.

So you sing in the gospel choir; sang in Holland,

sang in Belgium, from top to bottom,

the maps, continents, atlas are all yours.

I detach myself from these love affairs drive straight, swiftly,

to Hollywood Casino Aurora.

Fragments and chips.

I guess we gamble in different casinos,

in different corners of God’s world,

you with church bingo, and I’m a riverboat boy.

No matter how spiritual I’m once a week on Sundays,

I can’t take you where my poems don’t follow me.

Church poems don’t cry.

Vodka Omelet 

Make it clear in my mind, Jesus,

am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka

or have I flipped out calling myself

Limburger omelet chef?

I hate question marks and angels

with crazed wings.

You know the type, John the Baptist

toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller,

foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits

open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers,

so silky, smooth as sweet honey.

Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend,

2 cheeses add-on, shiitake mushrooms, turmeric,

chopped kale, hint hot chili peppers, cheers.

Scramble me, I’m cracked.

I rock faith in jungle music, dance nude.

Everything is a potential poem to me.

My omelet, my life, my booze, master cook,

vodka

omelet

2:38 a.m.

I am the Dustman,

Clutter Collector (V3)

Surreptitiously

I am the dustman.

I am this lazy spirit

roaming, living within you

weaving around your mind,

vulture consuming cleaning

thoughts, space, your slender body.

I feel it all day,

this night alone.

I am your street sweeper,

garbage collector of thought the alternator

village dweller, walkway partner.

I am key door holder to entrance

man, to Summit house.

For years of abuse, I am dust eater.

I hang high outside on lampposts,

edged inside on top wall pictures.

I dim your lights yellow inside out,

ghost inspector.

Inside I roll the house over.

I am a damp cloth, Mr. Clean,

I smooth over, clutter-free,

tick-tock clocks, books,

antique silverware,

pristine future furniture pieces

solid state advances

fragment mistakes etched in mind.

Investigations exacerbate our relationship

unhinged.  My snaking gets me kicked out.

I still remember those piled up old newspapers,

future books, scattered across your

living room floor.

Shake myself, scrape out a new home,

cheaper, exasperated.

I am the dustman; dustpan shakes out.

Setu, April 2020

Poetry: Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017.  He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.  He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089

---

Cracker Jack Box Poem

(Listen to this poem)

I don’t wear my pocket watch anymore

it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,

outdated gadget, time hanging where

moving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.

I don’t like to think about endings.

Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern speed dial,

no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just pops.

Lesson:  "What young men want to do all night takes older men all night to do."

South Chicago Night 

(Listen to this poem)

Night is drifters,

sugar rats, street walkers, pickpockets, pimps,

insects, Lake Michigan perch,

neon signs blinking half the bulbs

burned out.

Young Couple-

@ Heart Attack Greasy Grill

(Listen to this poem)

I was a little boy,

tad hillbilly son,

patterned then in

present tense,

hardly old enough

tall enough to work

nor notice if I had pubic hair-

large or small endowment

growing up self-conscious

about short comings

narrow chest.

Just a teen aged nighttime boy

looking 4 a part-time hook up-

little girl play, with a five-card stud.

Preacher daddy raised me,

back-seat Christian boy

low on faith high on doobie

rolled cigarettes.

I took my 1^st job, pancake flipper

@ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7

pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,

pancake short stack, secret menu was that

boss’s daughter, blood on hands,

my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.

Eliminate lines unessential:

waitress injected me some spice

old time recipe.

Unknown Poet from Rue Montpelier

(Listen to this poem)

I warned you darts with advice

strong words tripping over emotions

like an imbecile-

so you think you’re Leonard Cohen

loving some naked Nancy in a cluttered

matchbox apartment overlooking

European culture simulated,

above some obscure narrow

Montreal street?

For your information,

straight poetics from insanities Almanac,

Leonard Cohen died years ago

in a twisted pickle poem he

entitled “Narcissism.”

Do you and your welfare lover

desire to be the 2^nd generation,

deceased, unnoticed, unheard of,

unwarranted for failure artists

inside this thin, onion-skinned wall

dingy with your dreams?

I warned you darts with advice,

tapering off with your impotence.

Setu, November 2019

Poetry: Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017.  He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.  He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089

Old Men Walk Funny (V2)

Old men walk funny with shadows and time eating at their heels.

Pediatric walkers, prostate exams, bend over, then most die.

They grow poor, leave their grocery list at home,

and forget their social security checks bank account numbers,

dwell on whether they wear dentures, uppers or lowers;

did they put their underwear on?

They can’t remember where they put down their glasses,

did they drop them on memory lane U.S. Route 66?

Was it watermelon wine or drive in movies they forgot their virginity in?

Hammered late evenings alone bottle up Mogen David wine madness

mixed with diet 7-Up, all moving parts squeak and crack in unison.

At night, they scream in silent dreams no one else hears,

they are flapping jaws sexual exchange with monarch butterfly wings.

Old men walk funny to the barbershop with gray hair, no hair;

sagging pants to physical therapy.

They pray for sunflowers above their graves,

a plot that bears their name with a poem.

They purchase their burial plots, pennies in a jar for years,

beggar's price for a deceased wife.

Proverb:  in this end, everything that was long at one time is now passive,

or cut short. Ignore us old moonshiners, or poets that walk funny,

"they aren't hurting anyone anymore."
(Listen to this poem)

Just Because, Bad Heart

Just because I am old

do not tumble me dry.

Toss me away with those unused

Wheat pennies, Buffalo nickels, and Mercury dimes

in those pickle jars in the basement.

Do not bleach my dark memories

Salvation Army my clothes

to the poor because I died.

Do not retire me leave me a factory pension

in dust to history alone.

Save my unfinished poems refuse to toss them

into the unpolished alleyways of exile rusty trash barrows

just outside my window, just because I am old.

Do not create more spare images, adverbs

or adjectives than you need to bury me with.

Do not stand over my grave, weep,

pouring a bottle of Old Crow

bourbon whiskey without asking permission

if it can go through your kidney’s first.

When under stone sod I shall rise and go out

in my soft slippers in cold rain

dread no danger, pick yellow daffodils,

learn to spit up echoes of words

bow fiddle me up a northern Spring storm.

Do you bad heart, see in pine box of wood,

just because I got old.
(Listen to this poem)

Canadian Seasons

Exiled Poet

By Michael Lee Johnson

Walking across the seasons in exile

in worn out house slippers, summer in Alberta prairies-

snowshoes, cross-country skiing winter in Edmonton, Alberta.

I'm man captured in Canadian wilderness, North Saskatchewan River.

I embrace winters of this north call them mercy killers.

Exiled now 10 years here I turn rain into thunder,

days into loneliness, recuperate loss relationships into memories.

I'm warrior of the trade of isolation, crucifier of seasons

hang torment on their limbs.

Ever changing words shifting pain to palette fall colors and art.

I'm tiring of Gestalt therapy, being In and Out the Garbage Pail.

I'm no longer an Aristotelian philosopher seeking catharsis.

My Jesus is in a vodka bottle soaked with lime, lemon juice and disco dancing.

Pardon amnesty I'm heading south beneath border back to USA-

to revise the old poems and the new, create the last anthology,

open then close the last chapter,

collected works before the big black box.

I'm no longer peripatetic, seasons past.
(Listen to this poem)

Injured Shadow (V3)

By Michael Lee Johnson

In nakedness of life moves

this male shadow worn out dark clothes,

ill fitted in distress, holes in his socks, stretches,

shows up in your small neighborhood,

embarrassed,

walks pastime naked with a limb

in open landscape space-

damn those worn out black stockings.

He bends down prays for dawn, bright sun.
(Listen to this poem)

Setu, July 2018