Posts by michaelleejohnson

Fall Thunder

By on Nov 20, 2021 in Poetry | Comments Off

There is power in the thunder tonight, kettledrums. There is thunder in this power, the powder blends white lightening flour sifters in masks toss it around. Rain plunges October night; dancers crisscross night sky in white gowns. Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around, leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound, pound repeat falling to the ground. Halloween falls to the children’s knees and imaginations. Kettledrums. Hear Michael read his poem Fall Thunder by Michael Lee Johnson by Alyce...

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Injured Shadow (v3)

By on Nov 16, 2020 in Poetry | Comments Off

In nakedness of life moves this male shadow worn out dark clothes, ill fitted in distress, holes in his socks, stretches, shows up in your small neighborhood, embarrassed, walks pastime naked with a limb in open landscape space— damn those worn out black stockings. He bends down prays for dawn, bright sun.   Hear Michael reading his own...

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I Regret Grinder, but, No Remorse

By on Jul 30, 2017 in Poetry | 1 comment

I have no regret, no grinder of remorse, nor memory of the dental chair. I have no feeler of sins lost in sand dust with golden teeth, diamond over lay of lies. Do not dance, play checkers, between the lines of memory-black/white. I am a sinner wild with elbow muscle, flex right to left. Dental floss is my Jesus, purple robe, violent-victim. The cheeks of God whisper fools of toy tot decay, hanger on a cross-victim. I was an outcast of hell with flames hanging from my behind. What age of flowers is a whisper into the colors, fool enamel solid white. I wild elbows flex from right to left,...

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Painted Cat

By on Oct 7, 2013 in Poetry | Comments Off

  (an ekphrastic poem) The painted cat on my balcony hangs in the sun, bleaches out its wooden survival kit, cut short- then rots chips paint, cracks widen in joints, no infant sparrow wings nestled in the hole beneath its neck- then falls down. No longer a swinger in latter days, August wind.

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Old Man

By on May 12, 2013 in Poetry | Comments Off

Old man in a near empty house bridge port to the sea— (mortgage foreclosure assured) late in his payments to life, sits in a lavender lawn chair meant for picnics or poor people— pillows stuffed under his bum like layers of sponge cake. He sits at a handmade wooden desk he forged with his own hands finished in lacquer with the edges of his fingers tips. He types prismatic words forced together like a jagged Japanese poem or something resembling a Haiku forgery— while 2 Persian cats, Tambala and Shebelle, meow constantly with passion with pain, with hunger— bowls empty, food dried,...

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