 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 895 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 91 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos Michael 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/ He is also the chief editor/publisher of anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 https://www.createspace.com/6126977 Iranian Poetry Lady (V2) The first time I saw your face, cosmetic images, dust, dirt, determination fell across your exiled face. Coal smoke lifted with your simple words and short poems. Your meaning drawn across a black board of past, rainbows, future fragment, still in the shadows. Muhammad, Jesus twins, only one forms a hallo alone. One screams love, drips candle wax, lights life, shakes, love. I encrust your history in the Ginkgo tree, deliverance. I wrap in the branches the whispers in your ears a new beginning. I am the landscape of your future walk soft peddle on green grass. I will take you there. I am your poet, your lead, clouds move over then on. I review no spelling, grammar errors; I lick your envelope, finish, stamp place on. Down with age I may go, but I offer this set of wings I purchased at a thrift store. I release you in south wind, storms, and warm in spring, monarch butterflies. Your name scribbles in gold script. Night, mysteries, follow handle, your own. Harvest Time (V8) A Métis lady, drunk- hands folded, blanketed as in prayer over a large brown fruit basket naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard inside-approaches the Edmonton, Alberta adoption agency. There are only spirit gods inside her empty purse. Inside the basket, an infant, restrained from life, with a fruity winesap apple wedged like a teaspoon of autumn sun inside its mouth. A shallow pool of tears mounts in his native baby blue eyes. Snuffling, the mother offers a slim smile, turns away. She slithers voyeuristically through near slum streets and alleyways, looking for drinking buddies to share a hefty pint of applejack wine. Cheaters (V3) I am tired of cheaters online, weary eyed crossword players complicated chest moves drift dancers, lies, laid soft peddle, shared pillow, dark closet dreamers. Campaign gossip whispers, infidelity, sex objects shoved up orifices in open or private places. Sex shops open late, consummation nightclubs, cities dark corners. Two doctrines of selfishness you should know about penises and affairs most are short. Flesh and fights, scabs, cheaters in the night.  One-Legged Goose You see me in the parking lot hobbling, avoiding cars. I am that one-legged Canadian goose guest of the wild. You toss me a handful of mixed birdfeed. I am your morning wing flapper picking up leftovers by sparrows brown wing doves, yet grateful for charity. I learn to survive dipped in red resister North then South traveler, lifelong, mute to borders, I cross the line. I thank you poet, bouquet, crossword flowers gusty winds mix carnations. Cheap, reasonable costs in depth, death, within religions, tones of god Zeus, one space to Mary wept. Those cheap carnations at the foot of the cross. One-legged goose singled out. Flight of the Eagle From the dawn, dusty skies comes the time when the eagle flies- without thought, without aid of wind, like a kite detached without string, the eagle in flight leaves no traces, no trails, no roadways- never a feather drops out of the sky.
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