Jesus and How He Must Have Felt (V3)
I creak up these outside stairs
to my apartment after an all-night drunk,
cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle
London Dry Gin—on the rocks.
Michael Lee Johnson
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 published in more than 2,013 new publications, and his poems have appeared in 40 countries, he edits, publishes ten poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018.
Most Poems
Most poems are pounded out
in emotional flesh, sometimes
physical skin scalped feelings.
My Life
My life began with a skeleton
with a smile and bubbling eyes
in my garden of dandelions.
The Redemption
I live in darkness,
the shame of those early years.
Poets Out Of Service
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera
ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.
No one reads poets anymore.
Poets Die
In fall, poets stretch arms out
their spines the centerpiece
on crosses on scarecrows,
they only frighten themselves.
Juice Box Girl
somewhere stranded
someone's balcony
memories undefined,
you will find me there
stretched naked, doing
the Electric Slide,
taking morning selfies
Native I am, Cocopa (v3)
I am a mother, proud.
My native numbers are few.
In my heart digs many memories
forty-one relatives left in 1937.
Group Therapy
I’m going to lead the group tonight talking about Rational Emotive Therapy
Tequila
Single life is Tequila with a slice of lime,
Shots offered my traveling strangers.
Play them all deal them jacks, some diamonds
then spades, hold back aces play hardball,
mock the jokers.
Open Eyes Laid Back
Before long apps
will be wiping our butts
and we, others, our children
will not notice.
Missing Feeding of the Birds
I miss the feeding of the birds, these condominiums regulations,
callous neighbors below me, Polish complaints.
Their parties, foul language, Polish songs late at night,
these Vodka mornings-no one likes my feeding of birds.
Dance of Tears, Chief Nobody
I walk through this death baby steps,
no rush, no fire, nor wind, hair tangled−
earth possessions strapped to my back rawhide−
sun going down, moon going up,
witch hour moonlight.