All day long night is my storm lantern. I carry it into this farmland cutting into my harvest emotions covered by snow edge them in half in front of me. Do not laugh at me, a circus clown down, I am sixty-six; my dimples show smiles, ripples, age. This day is a lawn mower even in Canadian December. Machinery is shacked-up, covered. I plow beneath the white surface cut rotten leaves beneath settled snow.
In spring, the grass never pops up right. All day, night is my storm lantern.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1037 publications, his poems have appeared in 37 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 169 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. He is the editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Michael is also editor-in-chief of Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, a smaller anthology available now: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717
From my pristine homeland I set out on an adventure spree Carving my own trajectory along Heading towards the fathomless sea . Having left behind the comfort of home I’m conscious of the hardships ahead Knowing well, there’ll be hurdles
I know him since he surprisingly visited us at our infanthood quarter. At that auburn day, we’d just filled up our pockets by our fists, snatched warm embers from the fireplace and from a dragon dwelling inside the tale, then
No snow falling tonight all is dark wet and dreich, Stars cant be seen all hidden by low lying cloud, Shepherds struggle market price for sheep is too low, children born in squalor no stables left, now turned to houses