Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

MOUNTAIN KING

 

He pictures the high hills,

cool mist rising from

the valleys between,

vagrant ice patches that linger.

It is his, in his mind’s eye,

that hall of the mountain king

where nature opens before him

beyond the tips of great white pines

that shelter his secret.

The eagles pay homage

when he walks by,

the great cats purr from a roar.

He stares into the scented air

that moments before

cleansed his skin

with a cool, wet breath.

Master of this dominion,

his hair is on fire 

peeking, like the sun,

between the vaulted crevices,

his body pulsates

to the rhythm of wind

that forces the clouds

to shear upon the pointed tips,

releasing the rain

like sheets of wavering grain  

that greet him

and nourish the wildflowers

into rainbow colors

that attract the yellow bees

and hummingbirds with piercing beaks,

scattering the moths

that saturate the sky like confetti.

THE GHOST MOON

 

Through the congested

clouds it creeps,

its vague, cratered tonnage,

amid the dust, glides hauntingly 

through the mystery about,

its path worn thin,

reflecting the ambitions

above which it hovers

that are slowly invading

those dark recesses once hidden,

barely illuminated by starlight.

Its ghostly image 

meanders in and out of sight,

passing through night

like a dream

of continuous divergence

though its warning 

and pleas can never be discerned

for under the black sky

it has been decreed

to navigate in exile, 

growing more blanch

with every revolution

as we stare, 

sometimes in melancholy

sometimes in wonder,

knowing no person

will cast themselves asunder

as savior.

PRESENT COMFORT

 

He stands in the open doorway,

a brisk breeze caresses his face.

There is a shadow of straight lines 

dyed black upon the lawn 

that resembles a stick man, 

an apparition that points up 

toward the clouds that crowd the sky

as if to designate its source.

He imagines himself the outline

penciled atop the green,

where the grass is cool and moist

as it brushes his skin,

where vagrant ants 

and earthworms tickle his underside

when they course beneath.

The landscape is quiet otherwise.

He is content.

Sunlight, like the years,

moves rapidly over him, 

close enough to threaten 

and momentarily dissolve his imprint. 

There is nothing he can do

to stem the inevitable,

but to distract himself

with the magic about,

for the future is black,

the present, light,

which will yield no notice

when it dissolves him.

 

 

 

Michael Keshigian’s tenth poetry collection, Beyond was released May, 2015 by Black Poppy.  He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals most recently including Poesy,The Chiron Review, California Quarterly, and has appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)