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 is published in more than 2033 new publications. His poems have appeared in 42 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites. He is the administrator of six Facebook poetry groups; he has several new poetry chapbooks coming out soon. He has over 533 published poems to date. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet 42 countries, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards and 5 Best of the Net nominations. 233 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717. https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type=. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.
The Redemption
My eyes green are 2 glass windows into the past. I keep the blinds pulled down tight. Carnal knowledge is a Biblical definition of sin. I live in darkness, the shame of those early years. I pull myself out redemption in old age, a savior, before the grave, I flatter myself in a mirror, no reflection.
Alberta Bound (V4)
I own a gate to this prairie that ends facing the Rocky Mountains. They call it Alberta- trails of endless blue sky asylum of endless winters, the hermitage of indolent retracted sun. Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring. Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones, ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools. Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles. Travel weary, I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines. In harmony North to South Gordon Lightfoot pitches out a tune- "Alberta Bound." With independence in my veins, I am a long way from my home.
Tiny Sparrow Feet (V2)
It's calm. Cheeky, unexpected. Too quiet. My clear plastic bowls serves as my bird feeder. I don't hear the distant scratching, shuffling of tiny sparrow feet, the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry morning's lack of big band sounds. I walk tentatively to my patio window, spy the balcony with my detective's eyes. I witness three newly hatched toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back. Their childish beaks bent over elongated, delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.
