Solo, I am clock maker born September 22nd, a Virgo/Libra mix insane, look at my moving parts, apart yet together, holes in air, artistic perfection, mechanical misfits everywhere, life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft. Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers. I am a life looking through microscope, screen shots, snapshot tools, mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours, then again, ears open tick then a tock. Over humour and the last brass bend, when I hear a hair move its breath, I know I am the clock waiter, the clock maker listens- a tick, then a tock.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 930 small press magazines in 28 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 116 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 & Best of the Net 2016. Visit his Facebook Poetry Group and join https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/ He is also the editor/publisher of anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 A second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, Editor Michael Lee Johnson, is due for a February or March 2017 release date.
There once Lived a man named Mr McDocks, he loved one thing and THAT thing was clocks. He fixed them and sold them; he had his own shop, he treasured them always; it JUST wouldn’t stop. He had watches, grandfathers
The Violin Maker awakes and heats his glue in a coffee can rigged on a hotplate. He is aged and stiff like his wood piles of it stacked and waiting spruce special ordered from Ohio oak pieces from a broken
Her heart was like a clock that I wanted to stop and rewind the dial back. Remembering the beginning. Following the curve of ticks as everything around disappeared. The ticks and tonks that throb as pulse. The blossom of smiles
Sitting here waiting while the clock face chases forward my memories bewildered and twisted, with unborn thoughts… Seeing things I’ve waited for all these years just go by as tear drops now, like a paper book each page is turned,