I Feel Lightning in Your Wind

I feel light in a thunderstorm.
I electrify your touch through my veins.
I’m the greenery around your life
that breathes your earth into your lungs.
I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines
with the glory of my godliness.
I’m your syntax, your stoic,
your ears, your prize.
I walk daylight into your morning breath
allow you to breathe.
I let the technique of me into your brain cells;
from the top tip to the bottom
of small baby foot extensions.
I’m the banquet hall of all
your joys, damnation;
your curses, your emotions—
and you’re breathing with the wind.

Poet In an Empty Bottle

I’m a poet who drinks only red wine.
When inebriated with earthly
delusion and desire, I crawl inside
this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine,
lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined.

Here, behind brown tinted glass
and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one—
body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles,
hidden, squirming, can’t leap out.

My words echo chamber, reverberating
back into my tinnitus ears.
I forage for words.
Search for novel incentives.
But the harvest is pencil-thin
the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray.
Come live with me in my dotage.
There are few rewards.
My old egg-beater brain is clunking out.

I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer.
I can hardly breathe in thin air.

I’m a symbol of legacy crumbing
stored in formaldehyde. Memories here
are likely just puny, weak synapses.

“I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t
want to be here when it happens.”
Looking out, others looking in at me.
Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined.
I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated
wild women, the holy grail of matrimony.
I likely will never write my first sonnet
with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams.

Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet
who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine

*Quote by Woody Allen.

April Winds

April winds persist
in doing charity work
early elbowing right to left
their way through these willow trees
branches melting reminiscences
of winter remnants off my condo roof
no snow crystals sprinkle
in drops over my balcony deck.
Canadian geese wait impatiently for their
spring feeding on the oozy ground below.
These silent sounds
except for the roar of laughter
those April winds—
geese hear nothing
no droppings from the balcony—
no seeds.

Down by the Bridge

I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms
$10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less.
Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow
found in a puddle with a reflection,
down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge.
Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share.
I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart,
pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places.
In the Chicago River, free washing machine.
Flipped out on Lucifer’s night-time journey,
Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth
as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56—
my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag.
Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire.
Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store.
Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both.
Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand,
and small dead carp float by.
My cardboard bed box is broken down,
a mattress of angel fluff,
magic mushrooms seep into my stupor—
blocking out clicking of street parking meters.
I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat—
down by the river, down by my bridge.

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 313 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 653 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member of Illinois State Poetry Society.

You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.