Saturday, August 3, 2013

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems


In the woods one Saturday afternoon
when he was a child,
a shortcut through the slim forest,
toward the baseball field,
he came upon a beautiful woman
lying in the sun
on a bed of mulch, moaning,
and he thought her in pain.
Unsure of what to do
he ducked behind
an ample shrub
for fear of being discovered,
thinking, at first,
that she was wounded.
She clutched a branch
with one hand, the other
hidden from his view,
her naked legs
flailed in streaming sunlight,
shaded only when a breeze
incited the saplings to sway.
Unable to define her cries,
he was afraid to reveal his presence
and remained hidden
behind the brush
until the groans subsided
into sighs then silence.
When branches cracked beneath her feet
he raised his eyes
to see a shapely blond woman
walking away, unharmed, unhurt.
He stared then stole back to the path
after she disappeared from sight
never to mention the episode to anyone,
yet for the following few weeks,
dutifully trespassed the path
to gain some clue of the event.


Humidity rises
as the thermometer
bleeds upon triple digits
and he lounges in the shade
beside the pool,
dripping with relief
that tingles his skin
and though the heated air
immediately assaults
the droplets that soothe him,
his heart shivers,
enveloped in cold,
for she has departed
and her empty chair
offers no reciprocating touch,
no banter or giggles
that previous years
once provided.
As the sun peeks between
hovering branches of white pine,
it creates designs that oscillate
upon his chest
as if to massage
his thawing heart
toward reconciliation.


Roses, hugging the lattice, are trembling,
a rich, red blur of anticipation.
Perhaps an army of insects
stalk their luscious scent
in the shadows the clouds have created
with their odd formations
this windless afternoon.
The sky, a deep blue,
starkly backdrops
the invading gray vapors
that have stilled the air with suspense.
Trepidation lingers
as birds have ceased their songs
and taken to nest
while the bees and butterflies
abandon nursing the nectar
they most often valiantly pursue.
The squirrels have stopped
their high wire act
and have scampered for the trees
which oddly gaze downward,
apparently intimidated
by something about to enter
that no human, strolling about,
can detect,
distracted as we have become,
by our own idiosyncrasies.

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