MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON - POEMS

Michael Lee Johnson, internationally published poet, 10 yrs. Canada, Vietnam era, Itasca, IL. 10 poetry sites, 198 poetry videos U-Tube, published 4 poetry books, published 39 countries.  http://poetryman.mysite.com/.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018 poetry.  Michael is an administrator on 4 separate Facebook poetry groups.

​Cracker Jack Box Poem

​I don’t wear my pocket watch anymore
it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,
outdated gadget, time hanging where
moving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.
I don’t like to think about endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern speed dial,
no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just pops.
 
Lesson:  "What young men want to do all night takes older men all night to do."

​South Chicago Night 

​Night is drifters,
sugar rats, street walkers, pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon signs blinking half the bulbs
burned out.

Young Couple-
@ Heart Attack Greasy Grill
​

​I was a little boy,
tad hillbilly son,
patterned then in
present tense,
hardly old enough
tall enough to work
nor notice if I had pubic hair-
large or small endowment
growing up self-conscious
about short comings
narrow chest.
 
Just a teen aged nighttime boy
looking 4 a part-time hook up-
little girl play, with a five-card stud.
 
Preacher daddy raised me,
back-seat Christian boy
low on faith high on doobie
rolled cigarettes.
 
I took my 1st job, pancake flipper
@ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7
pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars,
pancake short stack, secret menu was that
boss’s daughter, blood on hands,
my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked.
Eliminate lines unessential:
waitress injected me some spice
old time recipe.

Unknown Poet from Rue Montpelier

​I warned you darts with advice
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 and 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 advice,
tapering off with your impotence.
 

PHOTOS BELONG TO THE POET