Friday, April 8, 2016

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

We were ants
that swarmed an opening,
digging, stealing,
back to the cave,
pests in general,
creating a nuisance,
in hell when it rained,
in trouble otherwise,
a pack of delinquents
in line
to build a world
with our rules,
living in one
with too many,
subject to
the occasional dose
of pesticide
when our numbers
bore notice.

That stubborn pile of snow,
the one beneath the dense white pine,
refuses to melt,
constantly avoiding
the glare of the sun
that pursues it at varied angles
throughout the Spring.
“Reminds me of me!,”
declares the old man
in the adjacent house,
getting a dose of fresh air
and talking to no one in particular.
I’ll never give up, he thinks,
leaning on his cane
as he watches the pedestrians
walk by, greeting him
with a casual wave,
mothers following their children,
runners crisscrossing the streets
as the pigeons desecrate
the neighbors roof
and the crows take turns
feeding off the carcass
of a road kill squirrel
capturing his gaze,
disarming his invulnerability.

The sky is a great big book
where stories are transcribed
upon layers of blue,
celestial fonts
swirled by fair weather clouds
on one grand page,
imprinting secrets,
like the tale of sunlight
that brightens
your corner of the world.
You might also read, for example,
an account that features a rainbow,
stalking the pewter sky,
following a thunderstorm,
smiling beneath the clouds
at the peeking sun
that guides
the rhythmic patter of raindrops,
leaping from leaf to leaf,
how one such drop,
highlighted by the light,
glistened upon a earring
lost in a passionate
early evening embrace
beneath the shadow of a maple,
a small diamond cluster
hanging from her lobe,
the one you nibbled
as she sighed
while you attempted
to dislodge the hook
above the zipper
on the back of her dress. 

1 comment:

  1. Affirmation of a wonderful combination words to create
    an originality and variety of poetry.