| Featured Poet: Michael Lee Johnson
Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago and has a B.A. degree in sociology. He is a freelance writer and poet - heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, and Leonard Cohen. He is also a member of Poets and Writers, Inc. and Directory of American Poets and Fictions Writers. His first, full-length book, The Lost American: From Exile To Freedom is available from iUniverse, Amazon.com, Target Bookstores and lulu.com. Visit his storefront at http://stores.lulu.com/poetryboy CARICATURE OF AN EARLY PLANTER MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON He is a gardener with a spyglass. With an ice pick cavities are chopped out of the earth�s torpid mouth, dry seeds are packed in with frostbitten fingertips. He rakes his yard clear of all snow in winter so green blades of grass will pop through frozen earth. He will weed, thin his garden early. He is a realist; he writes poetry also. BIPOLAR MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON Awake night light jungle twisted branches of thought. One character linked to the insane personality of the other. Bipolar in a universe of singles. The fear of aloneness hearing cracks in your walls; jumbling joy of jumping into the municipal pool in Hillside, Illinois at three o�clock A.M. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. Late to work staring at your employer, dart split eyes. Tattered with memories dancing on the tablecloth with glee slapped on the face with a teaspoon just to feel the sadness leave. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. Seldom ever hear happiness that doesn�t sound like a fire siren camping in your eardrums. Meds crank up and crank down; moods follow the meds or do meds follow the moods? Personal wars echo words in my ears. Even during silent times the night roars like street jungles. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. CHINESE MAN MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON Oblivious to far-reaching implications of Chinese political propaganda, a Chinese man sits on the end of a long pier. His bamboo pole tip bent downward toward shallow water, a weaved basket full of flopping fish by his side. He lives a simple life, wages a simple war against the underwater world, finds peace as noonday sun bakes down hard on his bare, skinny, dark-skinned back. DARLENE MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON Friendship is continuous, it evolves, it revolves around the sight of each other the feelings of one another, the small kisses in the doorway. Friendship is a love circle, it trips around, rotates tough angles when the one mate feels the other is in trouble. Often I feel like touching you intimately exchanging my kitty, Nikki, for your warm breast, thighs, the touch of your behind, or just hours of endless talk, child babble; but tonight I�m heavy wondering beneath your word shadows-are you all right? Has the day, the night, been good to you? Friendship is continuous, it evolves, it revolves around the sight of each other the feelings of one another, the small kisses in the doorway. friendship is a love circle. IN THIS PLACE, POVERTY FALLS MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON In this place night falls with Linda. Wrinkled life, wrinkled wishes race across her face. Torment bristles with each morning; nailed to a cross within her house, Linda lives. Everything is a cycle, a charity or gifts. Poverty is an odor, it is a smell her nose itches with. In the yard, poverty grass, near the old car, poverty grass. Poverty tastes like copper metal on her tongue. On her this journey with no applause, no gas, Nicor shut that off. No money honey, laziness shut that off. Her house is full of bills & debris. With no relief a few dollars shrink in her hand harmlessly. Rest, wait in welfare lines, manipulate the coin machines and the local pharmacy drug store. Electric heaters keep the old house warm and the multiple pets alive. The microwave heats the plastic salad bowl filled with water for sponge baths. The leftover water mixes with hydrogen peroxide that brushes her teeth. Her body pale and spirits bail out with pills. Groceries are checks Nourished by food stamps. Walls come closer in at night. The wind outside roars with stolen property inside. Dreary days, step into depression�s chamber; a slice of her mourning pronounces her dead. WINTER 2008 |
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