Poetry: Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089

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 92,

told me, "getting old isn't for sissies."

I didn't believe her—

until the first mimic words

out of "Kipper" my new parakeet's mouth,

sitting in his cage alone were 

"Daddy, it's not easy being green."

(Listen to this poem)

***

Leaves in December

 

Leaves, a few stragglers in

December, just before Christmas,

some nailed down crabby

to ground frost,

some crackled by the bite

of nasty wind tones.

Some saved from the matchstick

that failed to light.

Some saved from the rake

by a forgetful gardener.

For these few freedom dancers

left to struggle with the bitterness:

wind dancers

wind dancers

move you are frigid

bodies shaking like icicles 

hovering but a jiffy in the sky,

kind of sympathetic to the seasons,

reluctant to permanently go, rustic,

not much time more to play.

(Listen to this poem)

***

 

Group Therapy

Wind chimes.

It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.

I’m going to lead the group tonight talking

about Rational Emotive Therapy,

belief challenges thought change,

Dr. Albert Ellis.

I’m a hero in my self-worship,

self-infused patient of my pain,

thoughtful, probabilistic atheism

with a slant toward Jesus in private.

Rules roll gently creeping

through my body with arthritis 

a hint of mental pain.

Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,

writing this poem, late as usual.

It’s going to rain, thunder

heavy tonight.

(Listen to this poem)

***

Fiction Girl

(Transition)

 

Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction; 

the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.

Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing

to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,

yours is a manner of words at work. 

Mercury is a god of movement.

A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.

Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.

I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin

in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.

Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,

offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven

or hell, or toss back to earth.

Change is a choice where your energy flows.

No computer gods will help this poetic journey.

May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.

You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.

Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.

Flash fiction lines cross stars.

(Listen to this poem)

***

Cold Gray (V2)

Below the clouds

forming in my eyes,

your soft eyes,

delicate as warm silk words,

used to support the love I held for you.

Cold, now gray, the sea tide

inside turns to poignant foam

upside down separates-

only ghosts now live between us.

Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,

bearing no relation to reality-

my heart is beyond the sea now.

A relaxing breeze sweeps

across the flat surface of me.

I write this poem to you,

neglectfully sacrificing our love.

I leave big impressions

with a terrible hush inside.

Gray bones now bleach with memories,

I’m a solitary figure standing

here, alone, along the shoreline.

(Listen to this poem)
***

---

.Setu, March 2021