Sunday, January 22, 2017

Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine: Writer Interview: Michael Lee Johnson

Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine: Writer Interview: Michael Lee Johnson: Welcome to the first Writer Interview on the Peeking Cat blog! We're starting off this new series of interviews with some words from th...

Friday, July 3, 2015

Contemporary Poets, Their Works

11403396_662230277244915_951958291819710462_n.jpgContemporary Poets, Their Works. Join today:

"Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", is now available on, Amazon Kindle, available in Europe.  Buy now just $13.95/Kindle $2.99. Chief Editor/Publisher/Poet, Michael Lee Johnson, Coeditor Ken Allan Dronsfield.

The Sum Of Half A Jazz-Poem by Judy Moskowitz
Raw lustful rhythm
Drawing me into the half note
Half of a whole
Half full
Half past
Whenever I hear live jazz
I go back to the days of a smoke filled room
Dimly lit stage
Thelonioius Monk and John Coltrane
The secret meet and shame
Of three a.m.
A long bar with those that want
Those that know this taste of escape
Always hungry for wordless music

Bio:  Judy Moskowitz started playing piano at the age of three and went on to study at the Julliard School of Music.  She
went on to become a professional jazz pianist in New York City.  Now living in Boca Raton Florida, Judy began writing poetry two years ago. Reference for those who may not be familiar with Thelonious Monk:


Jack Speaks
By Ken Allan Dronsfield
"Although intoxicated within my ethereal madness;
Bond within the chains of soulless treason;
I'm desperately in love with this Gothic sadness.
Whilst staring into the mists of disheartened reason.
Walking and stalking through the dark, rancid streets;
stopping for shots as the pain's finally receding.
Through the smoke and the crowd so reverent and discreet.
Bottle in tow, back to the abyss, heartless and bleeding."
Bio:  Ken Allan Dronsfield, 62 years old, currently lives in Seminole, Oklahoma.  He has been writing most of his life, prose, short stories, poetry, and inspirational pieces.  The time has arrived for Ken to have his work recognized.

The Poet
By Diana Stojanovic
I wait for the line, the verse the prose that takes me effortlessly to the thoughts that continue down the page
Feelings drive my hand softly over words that take my heart and bare them for all to see
Shyly, I hide behind them incase that which others see is flawed
I write in the depths of seas and hurricanes, rolling in on stormy nights
Others run for cover
Me, I stand in the midst of it baring all in the outpourings
I am soaked and bare
Storms pass, but my words remain forever In the hearts of those who knew me in my words.

Bio:  Diana Stojanovic was born in Sydney Australia.  At the age of five, her parents moved to India.  She spent her childhood in many foreign countries.  This gave her a genuine love for humanity, and understanding of people from all around the world.  When her dog died, she watched all of her family crying.  Her tears would not come.  That was when she wrote her first poem.  She was only nine.  Diana's emotions are released when she writes what she feels.   Diana writes under her maiden name d.e.booth.

Piano Lover
By Anthony Sarch

Sitting down on the bench,
I pull myself close to you

Placing my fingers

gently upon your keys

As I roam high and low

Releasing your beauty

that floats in the room

From your sounds illuminating

around my body

Bringing me peace

as I play sweet melody

For you as you sit upon my lap

feeling my notes caressing

every inch of your luscious body

In perfect harmony

as you, tightly embrace me

While I play soft passionate music

you desire and our intimacy grows

while you make love to me as I play for you.

Bio:  Anthony Sarch is a  writer and poet born in Chicago, published on Amazon, Amazon Kindle and Anthony is also a member of Contemporary Poets, Their Works, Concerns, Current Poetry Projects, News, Debates, Links and Sites:

Peace, Love, And Bernie..
By: Daniel A. Stafford

There was a time when tie dye was psychedelic,
A Neptunian drug-dream wrapped in trappings,
A paper vision of peace and love and rocking roll,
One that fluttered from our fingers,
The moment Vietnam was surrendered.

The vision was worthy,
But the Capitalists owned the sand it was built upon.

Still the wish percolated,
Bubbling at the bottom of millions of souls for decades,
A wispy current floating in the cosmic undermined,
A spice steeping throughout the waters of life.

Finally this El niƱo has surfaced,
Boiled to its essence,
Stirred in with Occupying sauce,
Baked in the years of capitalistic cynics,
Boiled down to a brick-hard resolve,
Thrown through the paper walls painted by corporate media.

The facade of Oz is ripped,
Tattered gilding in plain sight,
No longer regarded as anything but a weary trick.

A man came forth,
Poked his finger through the last vestiges of staged paper,
Said "let us use these bricks to rebuild.
Come warm yourselves by the fire of peaceful resolve.
Walk in love and kindness and the world will too.
Feel The Bern of a kinder and saner world."

The fire glows now,
A Djinn finally exploded free of the bottle.


Bio:  Dan Stafford has been writing poetry since the early 2000's. Dan has always been an avid reader with widely varied interests, so the subject matter of Dan's poetry is quite eclectic, visual, and often contains an element of storytelling or of personal history. Dan has a widely varied work history, with a twenty-one year career as a technician in the long-distance telecommunications industry recently put behind. Dan is an Air Force veteran and has a vocational diploma in aircraft electronics, with a smattering of college courses at multiple universities as well. Dan currently runs a computer repair and web design business that he founded. Dan hails from the upper Midwest, but now lives happily with his wife in a small Southern California town.

Clockmaker (V3)
By Michael Lee Johnson

Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
Image result for Michael Lee Johnson poet
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clockmaker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screenshots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clockmaker listens-
a tick, then a tock.

Bio:  MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON, the Itasca, Illinois poet, lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 875 small press magazines in 27 countries, he edits 11 poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 pages book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 76 poetry videos on YouTube.

Image result for Scott Thomas Outlar
the Spirit of the Night
Scott Thomas Outlar

Your silver tongue tastes so sweet
metallic razor, poisoned salt
enters the wound
These days are the harbinger of night
red sky, crushed moon
chaotic tides
Velvet fur wrapped around the halo
ascension calls, door is closed
no one answers

Summing up the World’s Problems
By Scott Thomas Outlar

An armored Dunbar truck
passed me on the road
while I was walking home,
suffocating the atmosphere
with its black fumes of death
while transporting
bags full of Fed Notes
to the nearest bank.

Ignorance Is Bliss
Scott Thomas Outlar

On chilly nights such as these
spent alone beneath the Buddha’s tree
near the lake where, long ago,
we first embraced in dance,
I begin to hate enlightenment,
and simply want your lips near mine again.

Scott Thomas Outlar spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the ever changing currents of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over life's existential nature. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Yellow Chair Review, Harbinger Asylum, Poetry Quarterly, Dead Snakes, Section 8 Magazine, and Tuck Magazine. His chapbook "Songs of a Dissident" will be released in early 2016 through Transcendent Zero Press. "A Black Wave Cometh" (2015) is available through Dink Press. Scott can be reached via his daily blog at

Peycho Kanev
(Poem 1st Published  June 25, 2015 by codexjournal)
Ubiquitous Quietude
 By Peycho Kanev
Go quietly, or you will disturb the dead.
The mist is so thick here, like a white
bushy beard.
Famine is a woman with fragile bones
that cries at night, asking over and over,
“Where is your God now?”
The shovels are muddy, the ditch is dug.
A turtle passes the cemetery, reminding us
that he will outlive us all.
Go quietly…
Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Bulgaria. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Hawaii Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Two Thirds North, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. 
The Impression of Downtown Depression/Photo found @
Sidewalk Freak
By Pyiya Patel
My feet drag clumsy, one by one
the silent stares have begun
my words fall deaf
on the ears that dare;
the ones that stop and glare:
shaking their noses
in pity and embarrassment
They are the arrogant
who dares to pass judgement
One by one, I watch them pass;
not one dares to speak
I'm sure, to them
the stench of poverty must reek
To them, I am
the sidewalk freak.
Priya Patel was born in the UK and raised here, in the states.   She started writing in her early high school years, but only recently has she started to take her poetry to the next level.  Priya has one published eBook on Kindle and another one in the works.  By day, she is a Manager in the Hospitality Industry, however, clearly her passion is in her writing. 
Chicago Street Preacher (V3)
By Michael Lee Johnson
Street preacher
server of the Word,
pamphlet whore, hand out
delivery boy,
fanatic of sidewalk vocals,
banjo strummer, seeker of coins,
crack cocaine and salvation within notes.
Camper on 47th from Ashland
to California promoting his
penniless life, gospel forever
Kingdom here it comes.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 850 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites.   Author's website  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 75 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015:

Precognition  Dangles
Poem  By Ryan Sauers
Edits/Revisions By Michael Lee Johnson

Precognition dangles
verbs is this how thesaurus
or synonyms show love.
I can see how angels cry
blame ADHD,
as life sailing as circumventing
living reason, purpose.
Logic is a whore without forethought.
I see golden dawn
breath stars.
I collapse into eternal slumber
lost time and space.
I get rid of excessive words.
We do not exist, proverbial
pronoun distant from yourselves.

Bio:  Ryan Sauers is writer/poet and advocate of small press and volunteers much of his time in the local Chicago area, to coordinating events through local poetry Meetups, live open mic groups.

through local poetry Meetups, live open mic poetry groups.


Thursday, July 2, 2015

This site is devoted to my new Facebook Group:  Contemporary Poets, Their Works, Issues, Current Poetry Projects, News, Links Join Today:  Only members of this Facebook Group will find their poems here.  Join today and spread the word.