GAS Featured Poet: Michael Lee Johnson

 Michael Lee Johnson lived in Canada for ten years during the Vietnam era. Today, he is a poet in the greater Chicago-land area, IL. He has 354-plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist with several published poetry books, and a nominee for 7 Pushcart Prize awards and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. He is the editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all of which are available on Amazon, and has authored several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 653 published poems. Michael has administered and created 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member of the Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/ and Poets & Writers: https://www.pw.org/.  His poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence "Citta' Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis" XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, "If I Were Young Again." 

I Conceal My Craft

 By Michael Lee Johnson

 

I conceal my craft beneath the shell

of an armadillo, snug in its embrace,

nestled near its warmth,

as insects buzz under the midday sun,

where stories collide with struggles,

and words fester like unresolved thoughts,

distant from the critics' needle pen hearts.

Their relentless demands, cold cash, 

and hollow praise layered thick with honey

on pages between verses, where every line

holds a lingering scent or memory.

I gaze up at the vast sky and chuckle.

Speaking in tongues nervously out of mind

shining chimes waiting for the next critic

to declare my thoughts don’t flow,

out of character, my rhythm’s a misstep.

I tally each word, joy, and sorrow.

One poem, one collection of verses for me;

One poem, one collection, a poetry book against me.

Breath shallow, breath hard for the heart with age.

I conceal my craft under the armor of the armadillo.

 

The Older I Get (3)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

The older I get,

the fewer friends I got.

My teardrops fall on empty ears.

Imagine those soaked pillows.

Friends, some I've had for over 30 years.

Now, they are petrified by their own fears,

confined in jealousy, self-disgust, or gone.

Evaporation takes over the space where leftovers are stored.

They left my world nibbling on little, left behind.

My abysmal room, insane, schizophrenic

smells of pending death. Do my crying, do my praying.

Brian Wilson, “In My Room.”

Prayers seldom go beyond my ceiling,

mystically tucked back inside my brain.

Growing older, wiser, figured out nothing at all;

nothing worth worrying about.

Less tolerance, more self-opened space,

fewer gutless enablers, as time passes, doors close.

Old doors don’t squeak, no need for WD-40.

Key phrase: they die or show their true colors.

The older I get, the fewer friends I got.

I start best when the world awakens, roosters crow.

I fall asleep, like my mother, into slow-wave sleep.