Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer. Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 &; nominated Best of the Net poetry 2016. He is a small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel:
www.promoman.us, from Itasca, Illinois. Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize award for poetry 2015 & Best of the Net 2016. He has been published in 27 different countries & edits 10 poetry sites. He had 99 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. 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://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa.
He is also editor/publisher of 10 poetry sites, all open for submission,
they can be found at his Web site: http://poetryman.mysite.com.
His books are also available on Amazon.com and iuniverse.
a twenty-year-old watch bought at a closing-out sale worn through jam-makings meetings services poems that tell grief laughter by the minute hour
three oyster shells welded by sand and tide roughly indented outside smoothly pale shining within they keep an up-Island beach rippled by small waves where you and I walked as hearts stirred toward these forty years of hands held one in each
SQUARE-RIGGERS By Joanna M. Weston
these small ships sailed the earth through Doldrums around the Horn scurvy-ridden hard-tack full of worms brackish water rationed
today, safe on shore I admire their hulls billowed sails remember the courage of long-gone sailors
ORAL TRADITION By Joanna M. Weston
a fable told under an ancient oak heard by a wren and sung to the bees
a tale of hands and lips years apart
I listened and whispered the story to you the evening we kissed
THE MUSIC MAN By Joanna M. Weston
a stranger passed me on the street a pied piper kind of man in motley suit of red and green with yellow socks and purple cap
he held a flute in his right hand but not a single tune he played and yet and yet I wanted to follow where his wordless songs might lead
how I wish I’d gone with him and the melodies that trailed in the purpose of his stride as he swiftly swaggered past
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’ at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
Indigo Blue Night By Dawnell Harrison
The sky blackened with crows As the night dissolved bit by bit In an indigo blue light. My breath lay vaulted in the spring Air as the street lights lit up blocks Inch by inch, corner by corner.
Bio: Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 100 magazines and journals. She also has 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The Maverick Posse, and The Fire Behind my Eyes.
Triumphant Day By Joanna M. Weston
stride down the skies in march-time across hours tuned to electric guitars I’ll arabesque into auto-shops take spare-tyres roll them down Main Street in squadrons with bands blaring my personal victory parade as I cross the finish line in a personal best marathon
JOANNA M. WESTON. Shawnigan Lake, B.C. Canada Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, ‘The Willow Tree Girl’ at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
Editor Note: The word "tyres" is a Canadian usage; in the United States it is "tire."
A Wintry Fever Dawnell Harrison
I feel the chill of winter In the white marrow of my bones –
A wintry fever. The cold winds steers through ice
Like an ax to wood. I lay on the bed,
My pallor as bleached as death – No respite from the long, wide
Cold of the night. The love’s run dry but the moon Cradles me like a great white Madonna.
Reflection Dawnell Harrison
The reflection of garnets Darkens in the sullen night
Of your eyes. Once they were little crushed
Diamonds of light. Your body is a stream
That leave me holding Emptiness.
Your eyes are winters Glazed in ice.
The world whitens Under the ashes Of your memories.
Bio: Dawnell Harrison, has been published in over 65 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Fowl Feathered Review, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, Abbey, Iconoclast, Puckerbrush Review, Nerve Cowboy, Mobius, and many others. She has 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled: Voyager, The Maverick Posse, and The Fire Behind My Eyes.
Other Places By Joanna M. Weston
we took separate roads from joined beginnings you went grey-eyed into uniform and regiment I tossed out diagrams and went haywire across an ocean you criss-crossed the map parleying villages into exhibitions I took cities and strewed them over mountains one railroad at a time we met briefly to find ourselves sister-brother talking still
JOANNA M. WESTON. Has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. A SUMMER FATHER - poetry - Frontenac House 2006 ISBN: 1-89718105-1 $15.95 THOSE BLUE SHOES for ages 7-12 http://www3.telus.net/public/west34/
Editorial Comments: Joanna M. Weston is one of my favorite poets. I suppose poets who write similar styles like each others work. The story telling in just a few lines, coupled with imagery, sets a poem out to travel.
Heavy Brass By Andrew Baer
I walk with heavy feet down these city streets Pounding my thoughts down fired brick throats and into cement hands With fat soles, worn soles, And I close my eyes, let the wind ballet across my skin And it’s the closest I’ve come, being so far away To feeling you again.
Bio: AE Baer is a recent graduate of George Mason University currently teaching the English language in South Korea. He has previously published nonfiction pieces in DC-based think tank political publications.
Editorial Comments: Andrew is new to my circle of poetic friends; he enters with this brief but imagistic poem.
Distilled Tobi Cogswell
I’m not afraid I’m angry. I want you to know I don’t want to be that kind of mother. Tonight I write. Look outside, imagine butterflies, hear the sound of pencils.
Bio: Tobi Cogswell is a Pushcart nominee and the co-editor of San Pedro River Review. She has three chapbooks and her full-length collection "Poste Restante" was published by Bellowing Ark Press. Her work can be read in Illya's Honey, Penumbra, Spot Lit, Loch Raven Review, Decanto (UK) and others.
Ice Boat By Joanna M. Weston
wind-shrill rigging skim and lift of violins blades G sharp high ice-crystals bite pierce my half-shut eyes speed in treble cold oh … … swift thin music
On A River By Joanna M. Weston
these nights slide like beads on the rosary of time colored pearl-soft each passionate hour moves past me, afloat in sleep where dreams fill with your presence
The Return By Joanna M. Weston
the wall thins between my dreams doors vanish and I go from one room to another green furniture in one purple fish in the next I flirt with lizards fly canoes among planets fit shoes to tigers cut roads with scissors turn and hear voices that call call my name they pull walls down open windows to a world of dancing stars
Bio: Joanna M. Weston. Has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty five years. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press. And poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.
Editorial Comment: I have a fixation with Joanna M. Weston; I love her poetry and I’m addicted.
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