THERE IS A SUBMISSION OF POEMS BELOW:

If possible please mention this in your magazines, journals, links, online publications and bookstores, etc (please notify me if you can). Book review and author interview available on request.

The Lost American II is about one man's journey into exile over the Vietnam War many years ago, his struggle, his survival, his road to recovery and strength manifesting itself through his prose and poems.

Michael Lee Johnson's 1st chapbook of poems and his first paperback of poems are both available for purchase or download at: lulu.com. You can visit his storefront here. (http://stores.lulu.com/poetryboy)

In approximately 45 days a new paperback book, by Michael Lee Johnson, will be available for purchase and download at iUniverse Publishers: http://www.iuniverse.com/

Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet. He is heavy influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, and Leonard Cohen. 250 plus poems published. He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: pw.org/directory. Recent publications: The Orange Room Review, Bolts of Silk, Chantarelle's Notebook, The Foliate Oak Online Literary Magazine, Poetry Cemetery, Official Site of Laura Hird, The Centrifugal Eye, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Scorched Earth Publishing, Café Del Soul (The Cynic Online Magazine) and many others. Published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Nigeria Africa, India, United Kingdom. Mr. Johnson has a paper book pending publication with iUniverse Publishers.

Michael Lee Johnson
60143-1542 PO Box 486 Itasca, IL 60143 Ph/Fax (630) 467-1332/30 E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com Or: poetryman@walla.com

Jesus Knelt in Grief Over the Death of Children

Breaking out of silence, Jesus knelt to his knees in moist desert sand, wrote messages with his fingertips to children- “water is water, toys are toys, but by my fingers burn with life, though I toil over tombs with grief and tears- I'm the living and I am the dead. I was born to life to bring new hope into the death of children. I'm the messenger of the morning sun the prayer book between the morning dew, the play fields of your daily adventures. When I kneel here again, the end will be the end. Fire will be willed into my words. Driftwood and sand will turn to stone. I drag my fingers across hot sand once more; morning will come without a daybreak. Birds will no longer sing, and crickets lose their songs.”

-1999-

Jesus Walks

God lives in a tent not a temple coated with blue velvet sugar he dances in freedom of his salvation with the night and all days bearing down with sun. He has billions of ears hanging from his head dangling my seashores listening to incoming prayers. Sometimes the busy hours drive him near crazy with buzzing sounds. He walks near desert bushes and hears wind tunnels pushed by pine stinging nettles. Here in his scared voice a whisper and Pentecostal mind confused by hints of Catholicism and prayers to Mary He heals himself in scared ponds tossing holy water over himself- touches nothing but humanity he recoils and finishes his desert walk somewhat alone. Contemplative.

-2007-