April 9-15, 2007: Kenneth Clark and Michael Lee Johnson

week of April 9-15, 2007

Kenneth Clark and Michael Lee Johnson



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Kenneth Clark
llamakc@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Kenneth Clark (Dothan, Alabama) writes poesy and micro-fiction He does not write the novel started a decade ago A book of poems is available here: The Collected Histories Of Water Preview the online sample Kenneth grew up in Louisiana outside of New Orleans, but not before criss-crossing the States with his parents at the whim of the U.S Navy Those experiences drove him to chose the Air Force before college He has lived in southeast Asia, and most of the southeastern United States His work has appeared or will appear in Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k), Greatest Uncommon Denominator 1, Story Garden (4, 5, 6), Design Editor for Story Garden 7, Tabula Rasa, Poetry Super Highway, ABCTales, and Poet’s Cut
For more information, please visit Kenneth’s website: http://kennethclark.org/
.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Kenneth Clark and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Remembering Jean Paul

Night has no place
for robes or amulets
on the sidewalks
near your bridge

we rushed under,
our ruckled laughter
sacrament for
your suicide, of
last long year

when they found
you downriver
with duckseed
in your hair,
the jewel alive
on the dead.

Tonight
there is mist for
an orange night,
sweet dew on
park benches &
car lights passing
by, going home.


The Sabertooth Eats Its Own Leg

One day
lizards learned
to fly and escaped
the tar pits and entrapment
where their lives were
mired in muddy asphalts
disguised as oases, or
convenience and safety
in the fauna.

These new birds drifted
on warming currents above
their brethren, peering
down at the young who
die beautiful, who are left
for the ugly toothed cats
at sediment’s edge.

Predators with an uglier
future of prejudice and pride—
proud enough to become
stuck inside the trap
that caught the prey,
ignorant to the point
of wiggling down deeper
instead of up and
out, or away.


Michael Lee Johnson
promomanusa@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

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, Leonard Cohen He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/directory/

5 Top Things Mr Johnson likes in his life:

1) His interests in the study of spirituality, religions 2) Nikki, his beloved kitten 3) His fire deep in his belly for universal health care in the United States so everyone has access to care, not just the rich or extreme poor 4) His drive to find a way to survive old age in poverty 5) His need to leave a legacy behind for others, no matter how humble or small the contribution.

He is presently self-employed, with a previous background in social service areas He has a B.A degree in sociology, worked on a Masters Program in Correctional Administration, started a pre-Phd program & quit He took a creative writing course in university on a pass/fail basis-he failed A sample of published poems can be found at: poetrypoem.com/poetryman5

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Michael Lee Johnson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Boat In A Pond

Boat in a pond
abandoned
without oars
tied to a steel post
floats on top
of an artist palette,
rocks sideways with
wind,
edges slightly
west,
the sun sets.


In December

In December Miami sun
stands out on the southern
tip of Florida like a full-
blossomed orange,
wind torn sunshine eats away
at those Florida skies.

Spanish accents echo through
Caribbean Boulevard loud
like an old town crier
misplaced in a metro suburb.

Off the east coast 90 miles,
westward winds carry inward
the foreign sounds lifting off
Castro’s larynx,
and the faint smell of an
old musty Cuban cigar
touches the sand and the shoreline.

Dad Died

At the bottom
of the spiral
staircase
there is a letter.

My dad died.

He never wrote letters
on time anyway.

My step-mother
had to write this one
for him.

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