Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

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.

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.

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)

No comments:

Post a Comment