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 313 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 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 653 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Poet Staggers Cancels Out the Dark

There is a poem in my heart
a stop-gap love that cancels 
the chamber beats.
I can't dismiss the cane I walk with
or the heavy, pounding heart, missing breath.
There are prayers of my past etched
in abuse that I delete pictures about—
my brain recycles ruminations.
I can't delete beats or add them.
I'm waiting for the final fall—
when the gym whistle around my neck
from grade 8 basketball class squeals
out an Amber Alert for a dying old man.
 
They say I'm a poet, a word dabbler 
dripping sap from an old maple tree—
tin can worshiper catching leftover sins.
I face the world left, head-on.  
A shot of cheap vodka
drained from an 80 Proof-1.75 Liter—
lemon and lime juice mixed in reminds me
of Charles Bukowski's mic and desk
beers lined up for consumption elongated
in order, on the table—
those L.A. Street whores, bitches, 
fantasies of men past 60.
 
I can't delete past swear words,
rearrange old events, distinguish
melody from harmony notes
at the Symphony Orchestra echoes
of poor past performances.
 
Let me gamble what's left: aces, spades.
Joker is bankrupt, my crucified self.
Silence over spoken reflects
quietness nibbling of self.

Closure

With age, my room
becomes small—
roots gather beneath
my thoughts in bundles—
exits are few.
The purr of romance.
The bark of leaving lovers,
fall leaves in distress.
Animals in the distance
deer, wolf calls,
birds of prey,
eyes of barn owls
those coyotes.
I see the bridge,
the cross-over line
not far away.
When this ticker
stops, livor mortis
purple is dominant,
all living quarters of the heart.
From here, the dimmed light
of dawn twinkles
takes on a new meaning,
not far.

Anticipation (V4)

I watch out my condo window
this winter, packing up and leaving for spring.
I structure myself in a dream as
Moko Jumbie, masquerader
on stilts. I lean out my balcony
window in anticipation.
Dead branches, snow paper-thin,
brown spots, shared spaces.
A slug of Skol vodka,
a glass of cheap sweet
Carlo Rossi rose red wine.
I wait these last few days out.
That first robin,
The beginning of brilliance—
crack, emerald dark, these colors.