Tag: Michael Lee Johnson

Fog Man: an image of a human figure, from the hip up, shrouded in fog with his hands pressed against apparent glass closest to the viewer—they alone are black, the rest is greys and whites.

“Fog Man” & Other Poems By Michael Lee Johnson

aromatica poetica April 9, 2024

Fog Man (V2) https://www.aromaticapoetica.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/FogManV2ShorieF.mp3 There is a stranger in the fog screaming into this harbor tonight. A lonely son-of-a-bitch without a mother or a lover. He screams obscenities with bad breath. There is a way the moon investigates a sailor in fog at night, sheltering no one. Hungover in the lead piping suffering from myopia but downing in pride, hyperopia magnified. These memories are distant. A lady now of a dream still walker on sliding sand near that beach, leaving …

The top of a willow tree with four birds sitting in its branches. All is saturated in yellow with a blue, blue sky. From MLJ.

“Willow Tree Poem” & More Plus Recordings by Michael Lee Johnson

aromatica poetica February 16, 2023

I Age (V2) Arthritis and aging make it hard, I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk slow, bent forward, fear threats, falls, fear denouement─ I turn pages, my family albums become a task. But I can still bake and shake, sugar cookies, sweet potato, lemon meringue pies. Alone, most of my time, but never on Sundays, friends and communion, United Church of Canada. I chug a few down, love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale, Copenhagen long cut a pinch …

A gray New York City scene in the age of the virus – a man with shopping bags wears a mask and rushes across the street.

“Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back” & Other Poems by Michael Lee Johnson

aromatica poetica April 1, 2021

Virus in the Air, Spasms in my Back There’s a virus in the air, but I can’t see it. People are dying around me, but I can’t save them. There are spikes pierced in my back, spasms, but I can’t touch them. Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles, I covet in my prayers. I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still. Nails impaled, I bleed hourly, Jesus on that cross. Now 73 years of age, my half-sister …

"Three Eggs" photo by Michael Lee Johnson.

“Vodka Omelet” * Poem + Audio * Michael Lee Johnson

aromatica poetica June 17, 2020

“Vodka Omelet” Audio “Vodka Omelet” Text Make it clear in my mind, Jesus, am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka or have I flipped out calling myself Limburger omelet chef? I hate question marks and angels with crazed wings. You know the type, John the Baptist toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller, foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers, so silky, smooth as sweet honey. Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend, …