Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL. after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Vietnam War era. He is a freelance writer, and poet. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Thailand, and Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Michael Lee Johnson is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/. He is a member of The Illinois Authors Directory. Illinois Center for the Book: http://www.illinoiscenterforthebook.org/directory.html
He has published 145 poems in 2007 to date. He is the author of: The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom. http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. The book is also listed at Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble. Book review: http://www.compulsivereader.com/html/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1777
Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/. He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy, http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/ ; and Birds By My Window: Willow Tree Poems at, http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/. Both publications are now open for submissions. Mp3 Audio files available on request for any of the poems.
Special Note: Presently looking for an e-book, chapbook or poetry book publisher for a joint venture of poems by Michael Lee Johnson, United States, free verse; and Phillip Ellis, Australian poet, traditional verse. Manuscript can be made available on request.

Michael Lee Johnson
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Tiny Sparrow Feet
By Michael Lee Johnson

It's calm.
Too quiet.
My clear plastic bowl
serves as my bird feeder.
I don't hear the distant
scratching, shuffling
of tiny sparrow feet,
The wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry
mornings lack of the big band sounds.
I walk tentatively to my patio window,
spy the balcony with detective sensitive eyes.
I witness three newly hatched
toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted
deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back.
Their childish beaks bent over elongated,
delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.

-2007-

In the Garden Where the Flowers Grow
(Photo available on request- Ecphrasis)
By Michael Lee Johnson

I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden of Jesus, olive oil presses, Gethsemane--
trees, flowers, fruits, vegetables didn't poison anyone there.
Passion was sweat on the ground and brow.
There weren't darts of hate, misconception or terrorism;
children on their knees five times a day brainwashed to hate.
Christ didn't lead them astray nor make them pagan pink.
There is no God apart from Allah, and Mohammed is the Prophet,
but it's Jesus who makes the garden grow with or without water.
Then and now the apples grow in my garden of forgiveness.
Figs trees grow far away where I can't reach them but believe in them.
Like the Tamarisk tree, Christ is a source of honey,
manna and wafer, a taste so sweet in the desert so dry.
You don't have to be a scholar to write poetry, religion, or understand
the Eucharist; but you need to be a real saint to know the difference.
Islam, is Judas Iscariot among your converts nose pointed toward
Mecca today?
I'm going to take Islam where their God has not been before-
to the garden where the flowers grow.

-2007-

The Christians Arrived
By Michael Lee Johnson

Salvation Army and
the Christians arrived today,
Christmas, like every other Sunday morning
feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom,
basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots
where the cat used to lounge-
clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection.
I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless.
I forgot what it's like to be a poet of the cloth,
savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into.
I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand,
And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
Everything is nonsense when you're in a place where you don't belong.
Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering.
Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others;
feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation.
I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a 6 pack of Budweiser
with or without the Chicago Bears--it would make every Sunday a Salvation
Army holiday.
Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor
multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type,
dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian
clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved.
I feel like a fragment.
A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented.
Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers,
Christians arrived on Christmas day-
they always do every Sunday morning.
I pastor to these desires.
It's all a matter of praising the Lord.
The Christians arrived today.

-2007-

Twist My Words
By Michael Lee Johnson

I see the spring dance all over you face in green
you were arrogant before you viewed my willow tree
outside my balcony.
Now you wave at me
with green fingers
and lime smiles.
You twist my words,
Harvard collegiate style,
right where you want them to be--
lime green, willow tree, and
dark skinned branches.

-2007-

Berenika
(Photo available on request-Ecphrasis)
By Michael Lee Johnson

Do what I tell you to do
your face is like floor dough
your nose like a slant directionally
unknown like an adverb--
tossed into space.
Your hat is like an angel
wedding gown draped
over vodka body
like a Christ shield
protecting you in innocence.
It is here I kiss your lips as a total stranger;
bring myself closely to your eyes;
camp out on your narrow lips
and wait for the morning
before I slide like a sled
deep snow, away.

-2007-