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.Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois.
His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises,
and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at:
Michael has been published in over 22 countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his Web site: http://poetryman.mysite.com.
All of his books are now available on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=michael+lee+johnson.
E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com.
Follow Michael Lee Johnson On:
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/people/Michael-Lee-Johnson/605601763
Twitter: http://twitter.com/poetrymanusa
MySpace.com: http://www.myspace.com/469391029
Bird Lady
By Michael Lee Johnson
They call her old maid Misty, as in fog, she misses the sun.
She runs a small pet store, more for the injured and lame,
alone and half the light bulbs have burnt out.
In the backroom everything smells of dust and feathers.
The cockatoo is cuddly and named Brenda, but has bad toiletry manners.
The macaw is well hidden, and fetches a high price on the open market, called Ginger.
Misty is surrounded by wired bird cages,
jungle noises in unfamiliar places,
and sleeps on a portable cot.
When parrots or parakeets shout shrills in the night,
her eyes squint and flash out in the dark but no one sees it.
Squinting is a lonely habit.
Misty works alone and is getting old.
On a wall, near her cot, hangs a picture;
but is it Jesus, or St. Jude Thaddaeus
carrying the image of Jesus in his hand or close to his chest,
difficult to tell darkness dimmed at night.
Misty sometimes sleepwalks at night from small room to the other;
she bumps, sometimes trips and falls, her warfarin guarantees bruises.
Misty tosses conjectures: “I’m I odd, old school, or just crazy?”
Her world is eye droppers, bird feeders, poop in cages, porcelain knickknacks.
Love left Misty’s life years ago, when World War II ended and so did her marriage.
As she ages everything is measure in milliliters, everything seems short and small;
medications in small dosages day by day.
Early in morning a young homeless boy knocks on the store front window
desperate for a job, he lies about credentials.
Misty desperate for help asks for no references.
Today is dim, raining outside, and old maid Misty still misses the sun.
.2009-I Trip on My Poems
Michael Lee Johnson (Version 2 Revised)
In the night when poems
are born, I search for the hidden words,
secrets stretch inside my metaphors.
Even near my tender moments
when the images blossom into rain flowers
I trip on stems cut my way loose to nowhere.
I go there to see what I can find.
Fantasy, romance, adventure, history, humor, and family are but a few of the diverse topics covered in Sarah Ashwood’s, A Minstrel’s Musings. This volume of original poetry spans the light, the poignant, the sophisticated, the romantic, the adventurous, and the humorous, with
some good old-fashioned Oklahoma
flavors thrown in to taste.
"In Minstrel’s Musings
Sarah Ashwood brings
as much color
and enthusiasm
to her poetry
as she does to her fiction, presenting us with imaginative worlds and breathtaking imagery. Her poems of fantasy and adventure had me at the edge of my seat, while her nostalgic descriptions of everyday occurrences such as fishing trips and strolls down country lanes left me saying, “Yes, I’ve been there!”"
~ Dara England, Author of Brought to Life
Rhonda loves sushi, writing, World of Warcraft and naps (and not necessarily in that order). She is also the founder and editor of Niteblade Magazine. You can learn more about her at her website, http://www.rhondaparrish.com
Slippery When Wet
By Rhonda Parrish
Hiding behind the counter
of the 7-11
Ann heard Gary scream
then the wet, gurgling sound
so familiar these days
and swallowed her fist to silence herself.
The sounds of feeding ended
consumed by the shuffling steps
of hungry undead.
Two now.
A whimper escaped her
on the heels of a hiccup.
The shambling paused. Turned.
Gained speed as it approached.
She bolted from the counter
darting out like a deer from a ditch—
right into what used to be Gary.
They pinballed away from each other
he ricocheted off an empty shelf
that used to hold Doritos
she bounced down the aisle for cleaning supplies.
She righted herself,
regained her footing,sprinted toward the door.
She was going to make it!
Then rounding the corner
her heel connected with the pool of Gary's blood.
She dropped like a sandbag
and felt something snap.
Loneliness
By Rhonda Parrish
That tree, the crabapple, its trunk twisted and gnarly,
the V in its branches at just the right height—
I used to climb it. Before.
I'd sit in its crook, back pressed against the rough bark,
eyes devouring the words of Jane Austen, else turned up,
peering through the canopy, watching light dance over the green
as the wind ruffled the leaves.
Now, bent as an old man,
with one powerful limb torn off—splintered and bleeding sap,
its embrace would be too weak to support me.
Tenaciously, it continues to blossom. Even now, even still.
A hammering wind forces its way between the houses,
tearing the blushing pink blooms from its grip and scattering them,
like to many bits of confetti,
over the ashes that cover the ground like snow.
Poetry
submission form
at bottom of page
Catherine Battreal is a technician who moonlights as a writer. She lives in the middle of Nowhere, Texas with way too many cats. She is also known shelters eldritch abominations in her bathtub.
Absinthe Dream of You
Catherine Battreal
I was lost in an absinthe dream of you,
Dancing in swirls of chartreuse and white
To rhythms the Green Fairy did construe.
The music dripped silent into the night,
Gave loving louche to our conversation,
Which paled into something like moonlight.
And you, so coy, lost your reservation,
As awestruck as I by the fairy's touch.
You moved in time with the moon's libration,
Thus transformed, a Bohemian nonesuch
Dancing across water spigots and minds.
The muses ne'er inspired so much.
But what the fairy gives she also binds.
And you! But a shade, a dream of mankind's.
Former clown, clerical worker, teacher and head teller, Sandra S. Corona has been writing and illustrating poetry since the age of twelve.With numerous awards to her credit, She is the author of three illustrated poetry books: 'A Little Hope,' 'An Artistic Appreciation of Jesus,' and 'Wings.'
Her short story Skeleton in the Closet appears in our Spring print issue.
Who’s Hand?
by Sandra S Corona
Whose hand was I holding last night when I laid down?
I felt my hand squeezed tightly though no one was around.
A chill raced down my spine! I’d only had a little wine.
Who made the footsteps behind me? Who pulled sheets off of my bed?
There is no one else around this house; all the others, ancient, are dead.
Guess you wonder if I am sane. What right do you have to complain?
Are there pictures in your house with eyes that move with you?
If not, then come to my place and they’ll follow you all through.
No one dares to stay the night—horrified that they’d die of fright.
Whose hand was that creeping all over this haunted house?
The hand was withered, drawn, I mistook it for a mouse--
‘Twas rotten, severed long ago. To whom it belonged, I didn’t know.
The old harp in the parlor plays a note every half-hour.
Although there’s a garden, I have yet to see a flower
for there the lady spied her guy and cursed the pair. It’s obvious why.
Whose hand was that choking the breath of life from me,
leaving horrible fingerprints as a warning of what would be?
The old, marvelous mansion (which has many a room)
tries to stamp out happiness . . . leaving only room for gloom.
But why run from things unseen when I can be the mansions’ queen?
Whose hand sought to trip me as I walked down the stairs?
In this bleak old building, is there anyone who cares?
How can I be sane, brave, when, deep below something is digging a grave?
Why do I still hear the ringing of shots killing a faithless man?
Oh why do I hear the crying of a child o’er and o’er again?
Loneliness by Rhonda Parrish
Slippery When Wet by Rhonda Parrish
Who’s Hand? by Sandra S Corona plus a few other poems
Absinthe Dream of You by Catherine Battreal
plus several offerings from Michael Lee Johnson
A Gasp At The Wall
by Sandra S Corona
Horrors of each imaginative mind
coil in dark corners before they unwind,
walled, sealed in darkness, are fears rake unkind.
Peer too deep within you'll gasp at each wall
in the maze of mind, confused in the hall.
You'll see gasping faces that passed before,
they'll reach out in madness ... needing bods, more.
Do try to outwit them, board up that door.
A gasp at the wall
exists in us all,
gnaws, scratches, breeds claws,
till one yields or crawls
to reality.
Four walls closing in, there's no place to go,
legions are hoping sanity will flow;
eyes, luminescent, light up, faintly glow.
Even those without sin gasp at the wall.
Evil, dire thoughts thrive within us all.
Ill wishes, enemies, threats etched ... remain
in sacred chambers--locked to prevent pain.
Delve too deeply ... pierce another domain.
A gasp at the wall
exists in us all,
gnaws, scratches, breeds claws,
till one yields or crawls
to reality.
Endless corridors weave, twist, intertwine;
knowledge, evil, affects all humankind.
Others, mere beasts, tranquil, keep their mind.
Free will opened gates to infinity,
other dimensions ... eternity.
We forget--don't remember--evil stains;
gaping, mouth falling, try to speak, hand gain
a hold, chaos envelopes as we strain.
A gasp at the wall
exists in us all,
gnaws, scratches, breeds claws,
till one yields or crawls
to reality.
