Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 262 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 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 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!
My life began with a skeleton with a smile and bubbling eyes in my garden of dandelions. Everything else fell off the edge, a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half. When young, I pressed against my mother’s breast, but youthful memories fell short. I tried at 8 to kiss my father, but he was a welder, fox hunter, coon hunter, and voyeuristic man. My young life was a mixture of black, white, dark dreams, and mellow yellow sun bright hopes. Rewind, sunshine was a stranger in dandelion fields, shadows in my eyes. I grabbed my injured legs leap forward into the future. I’m now a vitamin C boy it keeps me immured from catching colds or Covid-19. Everything now still leaks, in parts, but I press forward.
Most poems are pounded out in emotional flesh, sometimes physical skin scalped feelings. It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross a Mary kneeling at the bottom not knotted in love but roped, a blade of a bowie knife heavenward. I look for the kicker line the close at the bottom seek a public poetry forum to cheer my aspirations on. I hear those far away voices carrying my life away- a retreat into insanity.
Poets in the Rain(V4)
All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off. Crazy, suicidal, we know who they are: Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale this group grows a Pinocchio nose. At times I capture you here under control. I want to inspect you. All can be found in faith once now gone in time. With all your concerns, I see your eyes layered in shades of green confused within you about me. Forgive me; I’m just a touch of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly. We don’t know if it is all worth it. I have refined my image, and my taste continues to thrust inside your crevices. Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie. Asteroid Ceres looks like you passing gas, exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice on a balmy rock just like yours. I will wait centuries, like critics, to review this fecund body of yours- soiled, then poppies, poetry in the rain.