Monday, April 14, 2014

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems


In his need to add a verse,
he swayed in front
of a blank white wall,
harnessed like a climber,
then rappelled
once he completed a sentence
stroked with his tongue,
dyed spittle from its tip,
like a sharpie,
expressed his thoughts
though the words
never took shape,
sentences turned into
straight and curved lines.
Day morphed to night,
but the wall grew brighter.
His mind’s eye
stared at the phantom formation
in front of him only to discover
the dyed strokes
transforming into a dense
galactic sweep of starlight,
universal graffiti,
that camouflaged his thoughts.
Then the stars detached
and like snowflakes,
swirled around his ample mane
as the bottom quickly rose.
He laughed and contorted
to avoid the imprint
that would ultimately define him.


through the unnoticed hours
beyond midnight,
keyboard, mouse, connected
to an ample screen
in the circle
of the florescent desk lamp
where you invite me in.
Months matter little,
the house is usually dark,
the hungry pellet stove,
always on the wane,
yet those companions
consume my attention
and help me formulate
a thought or impression
into a sentence
I hope one day
will be worth acknowledging,
a redundant insight
presented with a new cast
of wordly characters.
Without the opportunity,
there would only be
my tired soul
persistently yearning,
wastefully oozing
sentiments that would puddle
then eventually dry
upon the floor.


It will be at least Spring
before his friends
see him again at the lake,
a while before he traverses
the frozen crests and isolated inlets
at dawn or dusk
in a caravan of snowmobiles,
shouting and pointing out to each other,
as they sped along,
the magnificent murals that
winter’s snow and ice created
upon the wharfs and empty homes
hugging the craggily shoreline.
He’s staying put in the city,
rising early to visit
the corner coffee shop,
watching the suits and skirts
scurry off to office duties,
dodging the traffic
the stop lights greet on every block
while he slowly sips
and reads one of only two
surviving city papers.
The noise, so prevalent
this time of day, is his safety net,
the crowds, his company,
unlike the aloneness the lake allotted
when he fell through the ice,
last in line, and no one noticed
until marine patrol pulled
his stupefied body and sunken vehicle
from out the icy depths of certain death.
The city is beautiful in the winter,
the waitress was saying
as she refreshed his brew.
He contemplated, silently nodded,
enjoying the prospect of the mundane.

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