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The Lost American: "Tiny Sparrow Feet"
by Michael Lee Johnson
2008-07-10 09:02:32 |
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Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer. He is self-employed in advertising, and selling custom promotional products. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He was nominated for the James B. Baker Award in poetry, Sam's Dot Publishing. He is a contributor in the Silver Boomers poetry anthology about aging baby boomers, by Silver Boomer Books.
 Michael Lee Johnson presently resides in Itasca, Illinois, United States. He lived in Canada during the Vietnam era and is published as a contributor poet in the anthology Crossing Lines: Poets Who Came to Canada in the Vietnam War Era published in May 2008. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and Poland on internet radio.
Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request. He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com
www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com
Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com
Special Note: Michael Lee Johnson, United States, and Phillip Ellis, an Australian poet, are looking for a chapbook publisher for a joint venture merging free verse with more traditional verse. Mr. Johnson has two chapbooks ready for publishing review. Manuscripts are available on request.
Michael Lee Johnson
60143-1542
PO Box 486, Itasca, IL 60143
Ph/Fax (630) 467-1332/30
E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com
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Tiny Sparrow Feet
By Michael Lee Johnson
It's calm.
Too quiet.
My clear plastic bowl
serves as my bird feeder.
I don't hear the distant
scratching, shuffling
of tiny sparrow feet,
the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry
morning's lack of the big band sounds.
I walk tentatively to my patio window,
spy the balcony with detective sensitive eyes.
I witness three newly hatched
toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted
deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back.
Their childish beaks bent over elongated,
delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.
-2007-
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