Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL. after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet heavily influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, & Leonard Cohen. Currently self-employed, with a previous background in social service areas, he has a B.A. degree in sociology, worked on a Masters Program in Correctional Administration, started a pre-Phd program & quit. He took a creative writing course in university on a pass/fail basis...he failed. A prolific writer, he has had many poems published and has many more pending publication. He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers. For more information go to:

http://www.pw.org/directory/

You can contact the poet by e-mailing poetryman@walla.com.

CARICATURE OF AN EARLY PLANTER
(Edmonton, Alberta Canada)

He is a gardener
with a spyglass.
With an ice pick
cavities are chopped
out of the earths 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.



EDMONTON STREETS

Dec. 23rd,
alone,
40 below zero,
he died a cold
winter death
on 105th St.
near North
Saskatchewan River.
In his steel casket
buried beneath
rooted, frozen earth,
squirms the
lifeless breathing
of winter.



UNKNOWN POET FROM RUE MONTPELIER

I warned you darts with advise
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 & your welfare lover
desire to be the 2nd generation,
deceased , unnoticed, unheard of,
unwarranted for failure artists
inside this thin, onion skinned wall
dingy with your dreams?
I warned you darts with advise,
tapering off with your impotence.



REVOLUTIONARY SNOW

Poem dancer,
Russian yellow in revolutionary white snow.
Am I really Yuri Zhivago
Hidden in this funeral procession
Held high by paw bearers, looking at my dead father?
Lifting him up stairs into the Russian Orthodox Church?
Only for the sake of snowflakes & the pouring
of aged Vodka on the casket?
Only for the growth of rebellious youth,
the sweet aging of wrath?
Does a somber poet lose his flavor
Of word and dance & turn to medicine-
like children finding meaning
in racing around rooms and mazes
holding hands and losing direction
before their breath stops, the punctuation dies?

Poem dancer Russian yellow in white snow-
50/50 the poet dies alone.



BIPOLAR

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; the joy
jumbling into the municipal pool
in Hillside, Illinois at 3 am.
Bipolar, witched, 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, witched, and alone.
Seldom ever hear happiness
that doesn’t sound like a fire
siren camping in your eardrums.
Meds crank up & 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, witched, and alone.