Showing posts with label Michael Lee Johnson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Lee Johnson. Show all posts
She
By Michael Lee Johnson
Somewhere
she has lost
her shadow.
and now
she stands
still
with nowhere
to go.
-1969-
- - -
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.
By Michael Lee Johnson
Somewhere
she has lost
her shadow.
and now
she stands
still
with nowhere
to go.
-1969-
- - -
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.
Quiet Hours Passing
By Michael Lee Johnson
You rest
in this empty hospital room.
Your repetitious words, spoken to yourself, stumble over one another.
Everything is in holes and pieces.
The strange ear-ringing sounds of silence
broken by occasional voices in the hall-
the shadows pushing the lights
around like street bullies-
the sparse furniture all changed, each strange piece placed differently than
you would have it at home.
But you’re not at home, you’re
in this empty hospital room, resting.
Everything is in holes and pieces.
-1976-
- - -
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.
By Michael Lee Johnson
You rest
in this empty hospital room.
Your repetitious words, spoken to yourself, stumble over one another.
Everything is in holes and pieces.
The strange ear-ringing sounds of silence
broken by occasional voices in the hall-
the shadows pushing the lights
around like street bullies-
the sparse furniture all changed, each strange piece placed differently than
you would have it at home.
But you’re not at home, you’re
in this empty hospital room, resting.
Everything is in holes and pieces.
-1976-
- - -
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.
Coffee Time, Fuller’s Restaurant
By Michael Lee Johnson
June 29th, 1980, three o’clock A.M.
And I’m getting older by the minute.
Thinking about it makes me tired.
Outside traffic crawls slowly over
slippery pavement like inebriated turtles.
Inside, at the coffee counter, I flirt with a waitress –
fresh young fruit from Montreal.
She insists on calling me Vincent Price
and speaking French in Alberta.
I’m trying to read Periods of the Moon,
by Irving Layton, selecting the human
condition, repetition, and insomnia as
my main themes.
Next to me, a street gypsy drooping
over the counter beside me, pulling
scraps of dog-eared aged newsprint
from a doggie bag. She stares
squint-eyed at a picture of John F. Kennedy
for two hours, manages to laugh an incredible 29 times, sorry, 30 times, 31.
Counting makes me tired,
makes me take notice of this gypsy
and disapprove.
-1980-
- - -
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.
By Michael Lee Johnson
June 29th, 1980, three o’clock A.M.
And I’m getting older by the minute.
Thinking about it makes me tired.
Outside traffic crawls slowly over
slippery pavement like inebriated turtles.
Inside, at the coffee counter, I flirt with a waitress –
fresh young fruit from Montreal.
She insists on calling me Vincent Price
and speaking French in Alberta.
I’m trying to read Periods of the Moon,
by Irving Layton, selecting the human
condition, repetition, and insomnia as
my main themes.
Next to me, a street gypsy drooping
over the counter beside me, pulling
scraps of dog-eared aged newsprint
from a doggie bag. She stares
squint-eyed at a picture of John F. Kennedy
for two hours, manages to laugh an incredible 29 times, sorry, 30 times, 31.
Counting makes me tired,
makes me take notice of this gypsy
and disapprove.
-1980-
- - -
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.
Battered Behind Dark Glasses
By Michael Lee Johnson
An otherwise beautiful lady
with eyes matted and closed
is not exactly sleeping.
The trouble goes deeper,
the doctor has a laser
light drill penetrating her eyes
that have turned thunderstorm
black with smudges of red and pink.
She tells herself this will never
happen again, there will be no
rebirth with him.
In idle hours she self-nurses
a cave of hurts. The lights are off;
her eyes are bruised and burning.
In the morning, still in bed she looks in a mirror,
Her face thickened with puff and irony-
she weeps splinters sounds.
Above her head on the lamp desk the alarm clock keep ticking,
across the room, around the corner, the refrigerator keeps humming.
The man who had his way is dark in her, like distant echoes
embedded in a memory or shadow.
She owes him nothing. He hears none of her sounds.
-1983-
- - -
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.
By Michael Lee Johnson
An otherwise beautiful lady
with eyes matted and closed
is not exactly sleeping.
The trouble goes deeper,
the doctor has a laser
light drill penetrating her eyes
that have turned thunderstorm
black with smudges of red and pink.
She tells herself this will never
happen again, there will be no
rebirth with him.
In idle hours she self-nurses
a cave of hurts. The lights are off;
her eyes are bruised and burning.
In the morning, still in bed she looks in a mirror,
Her face thickened with puff and irony-
she weeps splinters sounds.
Above her head on the lamp desk the alarm clock keep ticking,
across the room, around the corner, the refrigerator keeps humming.
The man who had his way is dark in her, like distant echoes
embedded in a memory or shadow.
She owes him nothing. He hears none of her sounds.
-1983-
- - -
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.
