My Life

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

My life began with a skeleton 

with a smile and bubbling eyes

in my garden of dandelions.

Everything else fell off the edge,

a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.

When young, I pressed

against my mother’s breast,

but youthful memories fell short.

I tried at 8 to kiss my father, 

but he was a welder, fox hunter,

coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.

My young life was a mixture

of black, white, dark dreams,

and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.

Rewind, sunshine was a stranger

in dandelion fields,

shadows in my eyes.

I grabbed my injured legs

leap forward into the future.

I’m now a vitamin C boy

it keeps me immured

from catching colds or Covid-19.

Everything now still leaks, in parts,

but I press forward.

Jesus and How 

He Must Have Felt (V3)

 

Staggering out Wee-Willy's

dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes,

my feelings desensitizing,

confusing my avocado fart,

at 3:20 a.m., with last night

splash on Brut aftershave.

Whispering to my outcast

self-sounding is more like pending death.

My body detaching from myself,

numbed by winter's fingers.

I creak up these outside stairs

to my apartment after an all-night drunk,

cheap Tesco's Windsor Castle

London Dry Gin—on the rocks.

I thought of Jesus

how He must have felt

during His resurrection

dragging His holy body

up that endless stairwell

spiraling toward heaven.

Most Poems

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Most poems are pounded out

in emotional flesh, sometimes

physical skin scalped feelings.

It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross

a Mary kneeling at the bottom

not knotted in love but roped,

a blade of a bowie knife

heavenward.

I look for the kicker line

the close at the bottom

seek a public poetry forum

to cheer my aspirations on.

I hear those faraway voices

carrying my life away-

a retreat into insanity.

Poets in the Rain (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak

sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.

Crazy, and suicidal, we know who they are:

Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas

the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale.

This group grows a Pinocchio nose.

At times I capture you here under control.

I want to inspect you.

All can be found in faith once

now gone in time.

With all your concerns, I see

your eyes layered in shades of green,

confused within you about me.

Forgive me; I’m just a touch

of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle

Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly.  

We don’t know if it is all worth it.

I have refined my image, and my taste

continues to thrust inside your crevices.

Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie.

Asteroid Ceres looks like you are passing gas,

exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice

on a balmy rock just like yours.

I will wait centuries, like critics, to review

this fecund body of yours-

soiled, then poppies,

poetry in the rain.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 272 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for five Pushcart Prize awards and six Best of the Net nominations. 

He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society. Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!

Song Title: Sands of Time 
Genre: Reggae

Chorus
Sands of Time (4ce)


Verse 1

As I examined what’s happening around me, 
I’m left with no choice than to re-evaluate my thinking 
Oh yea, Oh Yea (4ce)
The truth staring angrily at me
Staggering situations my eyes can’t bear
Excruciations my heart has endured
Frustrations becoming a part of me
My cold treatments to people around me
The failure that I’ve become
The losses I’ve encountered
My hopes being dashed
I began to ask to ask myself:
Would you leave those vices in the 
Sands of Time (4ce)

Verse 2

I expressed my dissatisfaction through my reggae music
Oh yea, Oh yea (4ce)
My left and right side brain made active
Feeling no pain but sweet sensation
Melodies pure and flowing
Sounds of courage being heard
Ray of hope arising
The healing power manifesting
The love that’s assuring
The brightness of freedom
Peace that’s bounding
Make me see the possibility of leaving the positive vibes in the
Sands of Time (4ce)

Verse 3

The world is witnessing catastrophes
Oh yea Oh yea (4ce)
People dying
Diseases and starvation abounding
Rights denied with no justice
Truths fast becoming myths
The yearning for materialism on the rise
Leaders clueless about the future 
But through my music,
Sharing the optimism of hope
Illuminating humanity rightly
Seeing the right to posterity

Are what I will leave in the:
Sands of Time (4ce)

When I must leave you for a little while, 
Please do not grieve and shed wide tears
Hug your sorrow, for I have gone to fetch for you.
Live and do all things the same
A day will come when you will feed your loneliness with gladness.
Remember, before bringing me forth 
In your arms you taught me to never lose sight even when time seems helpless
You guard me jealously like a Guinea fowl that guards her eggs.
When hospitals were far, you painfully brought out with gladness
A day shall come,
When your product will be in demand,
When others will look forward to seeing and shake hand with your production

You give me a life and a world
A day shall come when you will gladly see joy at you feet
And by your side, there's nothing we cannot beat
Sad are the hearts that love you
Silent the tears that fall
Living my heart without you is the hardest part of it all
It is with heavy heart and tears in my eyes
To think of the fact the way I came
A day shall come when your hand will reach out in comfort and in cheer
And I shall gladly sit by you and hold you near.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in the winter blues
 
stuck in another
waiting room
 
heat raging in
the winter blues
 
coat rack full
 
my imagination
hoping something
young walks in
soon
 
i don't think it
wants to dream
about the wrinkling
skin under three
layers of clothes
fresh out of some
vacuum space
saving bag
 
although,
it certainly has
dreamed of worse
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
plenty of happiness
 
honesty hurts
 
laughter doesn't
cure shit
 
money can buy
you plenty of
happiness
 
true love does
have a fucking
price
 
cheaters always
get ahead faster
 
and death is
a relief
 
it's up to the
user if it is
sweet or not
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i never asked to be born
 
on the cranky
days
 
i remind myself
i never asked to
be born
 
then i'll think
of my father
and the worms
six feet under
the ground
 
the anniversary
of the day we
put that fucker
down there is
coming up
 
suddenly
 
a smile
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
past any sense of reason

there's a darkness 
deep inside of me
that every blue 
moon or so wants 
to come out and 
play

stir some shit up

push the envelope 
well past any sense 
of reason

this is where i always 
tend to hold back the 
desires and do my best 
to just play it cool

but one of these days

they might as well get
the riot gear ready

madness has no timetable
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
high heels
 
the sound of high heels
on tile floors
 
scratches that itch i will
always have in the back
of my brain
 
of a long-legged queen
digging those heels in
my chest
 
with a skirt on short
enough that i can enjoy
the view as i embrace
the pain

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Summer in the City

Dorian talked to me like I was an equal, even though he was an adult in his late 20s and I was a child of 13.  Debi, our sister, was closer to Dorian’s age and like a mother to me.

Sometimes Dorian did unsafe things or said things an adult wouldn’t say, which made me concerned but not enough to tell our parents, except once when he found a gun and shot it in our room.  
We used to take long ambling walks with our Doberman late at night in our Queens neighborhood.  Across from our house was my cousin’s house.  Her parents divorced and she no longer lived there, but I knew the house well.  Next door on one side was Adrian, who was from Haiti and whose dad had a yellow taxi in their driveway.  On the other side was Anabelle, an only child who was a little odd, maybe because of that.  We walked past Jay’s house, a large white brick structure. He was three years older than I and an Orthodox Jew. I liked talking to him, but I hated when Debi said he had a crush on me. “I gave him $5, so you have to marry him!”  We passed a small stucco house where another only son lived with his parents.  He was Debi’s age, and he killed himself one day. He was a dentist.  We turned the corner and passed the Greenbergs’ house, another family from Lebanon who were close to my parents.  

Their son was bar mitzvahed in the backyard when I was six. We walked on 112th Street, right by a home for foster children. This is where we sometimes encountered a pack of dogs.  I was scared for my dog because although he was fierce, he was outnumbered. We went all the way to the high school, with its large dark running track surrounded by a fence. On the way home we passed Barry’s house, the local stoner. His was the most beautiful – red brick with stained glass windows and a purple kitchen. Barry jogged obsessively before jogging was even a thing.

Dorian and I talked a lot on these walks, and he called me Arn, even though that wasn’t my name. 

“Arn, let’s go swimming,” he said one night.  He said he knew of a great pool:  John Jay Pool on the Upper East Side.  We rushed home to pick up our bathing suits, then got into his black Camaro. The windows were open, and the night air was thick with summer as we drove up 68th Drive, passing the Annex, where the local boys played stickball, and then 108th Street and Yellowstone Blvd, until we came to Queens Blvd, which we took to the 59th Street Bridge.  Dorian had his left foot resting on the dashboard as we drove, his long brown hair fluttering in the wind and his large nose sitting perfectly on his face as he smiled. “This is going to be so fun,” he shouted above the motor, which rumbled below my feet.  

Once at the pool, I stared at the tall black gate.  It had spokes on the top.  I clasped an iron post in each hand and peered into the long still pool.  Dorian pressed his Chinese slippers firmly onto the bars and shimmied up like it was nothing. He perched on the top and waited for me to join him.  He had so much confidence in my abilities to climb that when he held out his hand to me, I somehow reached him, surprising myself.  Once at the top, I put my arms around his neck as he lifted me over the spokes. 

I took off my Levi’s as Dorian dove in, his body sliding into the pool without a sound, and started his methodical laps.  When Dorian swam, It looked like he was part of the water, gliding through, barely breaking the surface or making a ripple.  He was muscular and lean, his hair streaming dark in the night.  

I slipped into the inky pool and floated on my back, my ears submerged, staring at the sky.  It felt like I was the only person in the world.  Water usually scared me, and the empty pool was eerie, but if I looked towards my brother, I could get my breathing back to normal.  The multitude of cars on the FDR Drive below us seemed far away.  
I’m not sure why I agreed to go wherever Dorian suggested.  Maybe I said something like “Are you sure this is a good idea?” or “Are we going to get in trouble?”, but in the end, I always followed him.  Almost every outing turned into an adventure.  My parents didn’t seem to worry, and anyway, they had lives of their own.  They often went out with friends and came home late, assuming I was tucked in bed or with one of my siblings. 

On the way home in wet jeans, we took a detour to Mamoun’s, on MacDougal Street in the West Village. It was a small, narrow place with dark walls. It had Lebanese takeout food and was open all night.   It smelled of mint and cardamom and meat. We got shawarmas, meat shaved off a gyro stand and stuffed into a pita with tahine, lettuce, and liffit. We ate them on a stoop across the street, where we sat bent over and let the tahine drip to the ground between our feet.  No matter how many napkins we had, it was never enough. The tea was hot and sweet in Styrofoam cups, just the way we liked it.  Sated and tired, we people-watched in silence, blowing on our tea. “All right, Arn, let’s head home,” he said. 

He drove us back to Queens, the motor’s hum pulling me to close my eyes, my beautiful brother by my side.

M Y   J E W E L 
 
You're the poetry I study
In you, I find myself busy
Getting to know you weren't easy
It's as hard as reaching the sky

You're the book I flip through
In you, I find comfort & solace
A truly human being I become
For you enlarge my mind.

You're the music I always harken to 
In you, I find myself in the elysian field 
A field of complete bliss & cock​aigne
It's as sweet as the seventh paradise.


Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu
An Infant Poet ✍️✍️

in nature 

sea spray
a residue for the lucky
i decide as showered
standing alone on a rock
in pink moonlight 
wondering 
and worshipping   

i dance in circles now
celebrating what just is
learning to laugh and cry
alone in silence
singing to my shadow
watching days 
evaporate gently    

omen maybe
magpie peck on head
protecting next generation
smile in evaluation 
applaud bird courage
forgiven quick 
at dawn

appreciation of all
disseminates softly 
with age in nature
and that itself
is an indication 
of measured time 
remaining here 




the fish

i’m in horror 
watching him 
pull up the hooked fish
on the end of the jetty 
where i am taking in the sunset  

and while i know i can’t do anything 
to save the fish 
from this accepted by most slaughter  

i look into the fisherman’s eyes 
and quietly say
‘that poor dying fish’ 

to which he shrugs 

but i get a sense 
by the look he gives the fish 
and me

that just for moment
hearing my words 
he falls into what i said

and i suppose
that counts for something

regarding the fish
and the life 
it has lived

on planet earth

our shared home

BIOGRAPHY Stephen House  

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.