Sunday, March 8, 2015

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

That old, square piano
once a roommate of Beethoven’s,
balanced precious stave paper scribbling
upon its narrow shelf,
facing the maestro’s bench
amid the other empty pages
that lingered.
His practice room windows
were open that day,
a day of extended effort,
minimal result and frustration
when the breeze, suddenly,
with three short bursts
and an extended breath,
flipped the empty sheets
upon the floor
and as the sun was reflecting
off the Rhine,
Beethoven scooped up
the blank pages,
mimicking rhythmically
those four repetitions
into a fifth.

That enigmatic bit of scribble
upon the concrete slabs
that frame highway bridges
or decorate the ceramic tile walls
upon descent
to the hellish halls
of an antiquated subway system,
are vibrant two dimensional
multi-colored letters
of a fraternity dare,
territorial markings of rival gangs,
depictions of angels and devils,
an arrow piercing a heart dripping,
the insignificant initials
of lovers frozen in time,
and even a modest replica of the Creation
by an unassuming artisan,
wondering how? why?
So many gaudy,
contemporary interpretations of Western art
or personal expression
line the interstate underpasses
to pique driver attention
and temporarily redirect fatigue.

Approach them
when it’s least expected,
at an angle
so you can’t be seen,
in a sun filled room
and stare into their depths,
to see a shallow pretense of reality
mounted upon a flat blank wall,
but take care,
don’t let them catch your image.
Witness the burden they bear,
carrying the weight of the room
within their narrow frames,
a queen size bed
with its matching night stand,
adjacent to the windows
between which lingers the dresser
upon a thickly carpeted floor.
All day, every day,
the images never change,
except at night when mirrors
crave the company of darkness,
sunlight’s release
to allow respite
and their vacant, dead stare
at timelessness and eternity,
neither of which demand reflection
in a tactile sense,
standing there in absentia,
admiring themselves in the dark,
your reflection upon them,
making you sweat.

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