Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 88 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/
Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry
2015. Visit his Facebook Poetry
Group and join https://www.facebook.com/ groups/807679459328998/
I Tell Nikki's Short Cat Story Dreams
I know my cat is messed up when she sticks her paws in a catnip bowl loaded.
This is where science fiction begins and ancient history becomes modern poetry.
She dreams of stale fish munchies, dead frogs, string beans dipped in fennel seeds
on a shish kebab stick. She scratches my dirty laundry bag to ward off evil spirits.
In catnip vision, she supports me in her hate of belly rubs.
Flying banner in an open vacated cat field night, fragments.
When I Die (V3)
When I die
not if I die
library of congress
will close out my memory card
close out my small condominium unit
rent it out. Those unfinished poems,
date undated, tossed out with trash.
My tower computer, obsolete
to miniature handheld devises.
My tower is a small penis that cannot get up.
Skyscrapers are dwarfs.
They draw a period to their doorstep.
In my grave cylinder beneath willow tree earth
complete poems go, illusive, informative
no big words:
When I die
not if I die.
Graying in My Life
like a stagnant
rain water with moss
floating on top-
Oh, it’s not such
a bad deal,
chilled in the
middle of a sentence
like an old grandfather clock,
hands stretched straight in the air
like a final
Headlights Tossed Forward (V2)
I live in a sketched out rusty truck world
alarm clock on the dashboard legs stretched out.
I am a coffee shop manager whores found on the road
hitch hiking to their next adventure.
My world is colored gray with half tones.
My tires are whitewalls half-flat and half rolling.
My world revolves around travels poverty my poems.
I cannot see forward the storms brewing adventures in my eyes.
Words flip-flop right to left window flapping in frozen fog.
The pace of winter nights confuses me.
I travel most of these black tar roads fender damaged, alone.
All earthly goods, tees and sweatshirts, old memories stuffed
in the back, old black quarter ton truck.
Begin, and end, headlights tossed forward.