The Flapper Press Poetry Café Features New Poetry from Michael Lee Johnson
- Flapper Press Poetry Café
- Aug 1
- 7 min read
By Elizabeth Gracen for the Flapper Press Poetry Café:
The Flapper Press Poetry Café is always open for submissions—even for poets who have already been published on our site. We encourage people to continue to submit for featured articles. Just as the world keeps crackling with change, we love to see artists' work continue to evolve. Here at the Flapper Press Poetry Café, we believe the power of poetry can uncover life's mysteries and the fathomless depth of the human spirit.
This week, we once again visit the work of Michael Lee Johnson, a poet who was featured earlier on our site in 2021.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work published in 46 countries/republics. He is also a song lyricist with several published poetry books. His talent has been recognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the Net nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 336-plus YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and dedication. He is a proud member of the Illinois State Poetry Society and of the Academy of American Poets. His poems have been translated into several languages. Awards/Contests include: 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."
Please welcome back Michael Lee Johnson!
Elizabeth Gracen: Michael, thanks for taking the time to talk to Flapper Press again about your work. You’ve been a poet for a long time, and your work has been widely published. How has the art of poetry changed for you over the years? What have you learned about yourself, and is there a particular phase in your poetic career that means the most to you?
Michael Lee Johnson: Yes, I’m an aging poet now, 77 going on 78 years of age. I wrote my first poem in 1968, over 57 years ago. There were years when I wrote little to nothing, knowing poetry was not a livelihood. I started writing the usual dripple of romance and sadness dangling on the edge of the Vietnam War–draft era. Initially, I wasn’t sure what poetry truly was. I just knew at the time I was in a mess. Making life-altering decisions at 19–21 years of age was a blinding experience. Often, youth decisions are foolish. Once I returned to the United States, I stabilized, had a decent relationship, and owned my own condo. I also had a cat named Nikki, whom I loved for 22.5 years. Life was good. Life was changing, and the internet had arrived. No longer the tedious typing, envelopes, return stamps, and slow mail. Initially, a few poems were accepted, and then the flood of submissions arrived. I developed a wall of strength.
Poetry is no longer a crutch, but rather a source of confidence and strength.
I’d say that, roughly, 2010 to 2025 has accelerated my exposure. Poetry is a passion, and I spend no time worrying about competition but instead helping other poets.
EG: You’re not as gritty and dark as one of my favorite poets, Charles Bukowski, but your work resonates with that same weary eye that looks out at the world with a point of view that only life experience brings. Are there any particular poets you identify with or try to emulate—either now or over the years? Do you read a lot of poetry? What motivates you to write?
MLJ: I’m a mixed bag of hell and love. My lady friend of over 35 years once said, “How can such an asshole write such beautiful poems?” I have a mix. Initially, Carl Sandburg was my poetry god. I love his voice, I imitate it. While in exile in Canada, I encountered Leonard Cohen and read all his early poems, as well as everything he had to offer. Since I loved and lived the street life in my Volkswagen van and was homeless, drifting on the streets in Toronto, Ontario, where I started to pick up the crude notions of Charles Bukowski, I returned to the United States under amnesty. All three make up my emotional sensitivity, my love relationships come and go, and my selfishness.
EG: As someone who freely states that they moved to Canada to avoid the Vietnam War, do you consider yourself a political person? A political poet? I haven’t read the breadth of your work, so please tell me about any of the poems that emotionally connect you to that time. How do current issues in the world impact the poems you are writing today?
MLJ: This question is the most difficult. I was a kid running scared. Student deferment had run out. The draft lottery was up for grabs, and I was on it. I didn’t believe in the Vietnam War, and 50-plus years later, I still don’t believe in that war. You are political or a survivalist only in that position at that time.
EG: Do you have a particular poetic form that you tend to lean toward when you write a poem? What are your favorite forms?
MLJ: I guess I’m a freedom freak, though I never really liked the Hippies of my era. My form, if I have any, was formulated through early readings of Carl Sandburg, Leonard Cohen, Sylvia Plath, Sara Teasdale, Margaret Atwood, and, yes, Charles Bukowski. Writing of free verse.
I have experimented with forms, mostly short-form types, and had a few published, but it’s not my primary focus. With aging, my interest in songwriting and creating lyrics has increased. I have collaborated with several singers who are poetic types, resulting in several of my poems being set to music as songs. Here are a few examples:
EG: Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts with the Flapper Press Poetry Café. Please inform our readers about where they can find more of your work and what they can expect to see from Michael Lee Johnson in the coming year.
MLJ: I guess I would describe myself as a surrealist, mystic, and spiritual person in private. I have over 346 YouTube poetry videos at the time of this writing. I have published over 600 poems. It would be simpler to type into Google search “Michael Lee Johnson, poet.”
Turnips in Southern Tennessee Still
In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern
wooden structures stalled off the narrow
highway and came to an abrupt end.
Lost in the deep eyes of forest green,
closing in on night.
From the top of a Yellow Poplar
tree scares me looking down
at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine
and moonlight illuminate the fire stills.
Moonshine murders of the past,
dead bodies hidden behind blue walls.
Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks
on the right side lie dormant through plaster.
This confirms my belief that Jesus
only works part-time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo album.
One more time—
find the turnips in the still.
About the poem:
Life has changed values and priorities over the years. Remembering the past is a lifeline for the future and a source of joy in the moment. History is a storyteller. Prohibition in the United States was an opportunity for the criminal crime families, especially in Chicago. Bootlegged booze was a fortune in hand. This poem is about my belief in history as the best storyteller.
Steel Bars a Single Sheet
I'm Steely Dan Seymour Butts,
South America, trust me on that.
I can't pull up my sheet inside
these steel bars anymore. 25 to life.
No man is God in the cold or the clouds.
Isolated poets grab words anywhere
they can find them in newspaper clippings,
ripped-out Bible verses are a sin.
No one pities people like me in prison.
Spiders hang from my cell ceiling—
dance the jitterbug, "In the Mood."
Jigger bug fleas on my unpainted
cement floors.
My butt is toilet paper brown, flush.
Toxic thoughts grind on my aging
face, body, and declining health.
In this dream, I reach
for a hacksaw that is not there.
End this night & so many more
suffer in just a snore.
About the poem:
Sitting in prison is a lonely business. There are noisy days, loud talking nights, and cell doors clanking. Counting the number of holes in your steel bed becomes tedious, especially if you're a creative poet in trouble facing many years forward in a cell. Every poet is a storyteller. Here is a summary of Steely Dan's Seymore Butts' journey, doing time for a crime not committed. Say your prayers to Steely Dan tonight.
Breadcrumbs for Starving Birds (V2)
Smiling across the ravine,
snow-cloaked footbridge.
Prickly ropes slick with ice,
snow-clad boards, pepper sprinkled
with raccoon tracks, virgin markers,
a fresh first trail.
Across and safe,
I toss yellow breadcrumbs
onto white snow for starving birds.
About the poem:
It's so natural and in tune with nature, how I live my life. I'm a lover of nature, God's window to my world, my spirit, and knowing I, too, will die. I give some of this credit to my father, an aggressive animal in life but a nature lover. Since then, I have constantly fed the sparrows outside by the balcony window.
In the Sun, They All-Pass
In the bright sun in the early morning
Gordon Lightfoot sings.
When everything comes back,
to shadow thin, thunderclaps—
and drips of rain.
The coffee pot is perking again.
Even though Gordon has passed.
I experience a mix of life.
A blender of the plurality of singulars
mounting movie moving frames
all returning to memory and mind.
The echoes of insanity, a whisper
schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses.
The romances of Leonard Cohen
are hidden in foreign hotel rooms,
lost keys, forgotten scenarios
and forgotten places.
All silence skedaddles
away from death stolen
those leftover tears of a lifetime—
now expired on earth—
seek through
pain abstains.
About the poem:
The moments of life are bright and sometimes clouded. We must pick our joys and our sorrows. We all live in a motion picture movie, alive and passing away like sour wind dust. Even the poets among us cherish the limited time inside their minds before dusk. When the end comes for poets and the rest, the pain abides.
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