Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, had his twelfth poetry collection, Into The Light, released in April, 2017 by Flutter Press. He has been published in numerous national and international journals including Oyez Review, Red River Review, Sierra Nevada College Review, Oklahoma Review, Chiron Review and has appeared as feature writer in over a twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)

SETTLING

 

They did what they desired,

pursued a dream until it evaporated,

relinquishing then

to the arduous commerce of acquisition,

allowing sorted perspectives

and temperaments of trophy representations

to infiltrate an idyllic affection

that long ago dwindled

behind the guise of co-existence.

And now, they are here,

at a table of ruin,

years of routine impossible to amend.

Dinner is served,

the baked salmon drowns

in the clear glass lake of the plate,

the wine’s bouquet has wilted.

It has been decided,

the present has its promise,

it yields a blessing,

no expectation, no loss,

yet a place to go,

vague reasons to remain.

Creature comforts have

no hearts to break.

RECOGNIZED

 

He stood there,

staring back at me,

odd expression upon his face,

smiling after I did

from the other side

of a huge pane window

on the newly renovated office building,

appearing a bit more disheveled

than I remembered.

More wrinkles

supported his grimace

and receding hairline,

acknowledging me

when I nodded hello.

I use to know him well,

athletic, sculpted, artistic,

a well defined physique,

but his apparent paunch

negated any recent activity.

This window man

I thought I knew,

musician, writer, runner, dreamer,

now feasted off the stale menu

of advancing age,

aches, excuses, laziness,

failing eyesight and an appetite

for attained rights

decades seem to imply.

Yet I accepted him,

embraced him for who he was,

aware that he would be the lone soul

to accompany me

toward the tunnel’s light

when all others have drawn the blinds.

“Walk with me,” I say.

He stays close.

HOME AGAIN

 

Abandoned house, are there

only spiders and rodents

residing amid your rooms?

I see my distorted image

upon the fogged glass

of the old storm door,

and feel like a prowler,

appraising the value of items

upon your walls

or tucked in your corners,

when, in truth, I seek

to rekindle precious memories

and reconstruct pictures

the recent days

have begun to obscure,

events the rain of years

are washing away,

remembrances,

trickling indiscernibly 

through the pitted window

of my mind’s eye

as I rap my fist

against the glass,

hoping the ghosts will answer.

LONELINESS MOTEL

 

His little hole in the Boston skyline,

one window lined with soot

facing Fenway Park.

In the room overhead,

there was a clarinet

that stalked Stravinsky’s Three Pieces

every evening.

During the day it was mostly quiet,

the crowd on the sidewalks

resembled spiders in the room,

preying with thick overcoats

to catch the unsuspecting

in a web woven with smog

illuminated dimly with the little light

that penetrated building alleys,

so dark, he could only shave

with a lamp in his face.

Every morning at 7:30 A.M.,

students clamored on the staircase,

rushing en route to classes

at the universities

and colleges around the corner,

the clarinet player would flush the toilet

then turn on the shower.

Once in a while, a bird

chirped or tweeted, like a bell chime,

so close to his door,

for a moment, he believed

he had a visitor.

FISH COVE

 

Beneath the dock

from which he casts,

the water is shallow and clear,

the sodden earth

that bears the weight of liquid

is speckled with shoots

that will eventually surface

into a stage upon which

the basso bull frog

will perform his aria.

Occasionally, a cloud of dirt

smokes the clarity

of the transparent lake

and his searching

reveals the tail fin

of a scampering bass

near the shore to spawn.

He sits and watches

amid the Spring warmth

and delicate breezes

which incite the lake

to gently slap the dock.

He no longer dangles the bait

to tease the unsuspecting,

no longer allows temptation to linger,

that same lure

which spurred him to seek

refuge and the simple poem

this silent swimmer

strokes with her fin.

To read her verse

within the enclosure of this cove

is the remedy by which

he turns from the commotion

in his own life,

a commotion he has no desire

to impart.

CIRCUMSTANCE

 

“Who told you to think?”

God asked,

we naked and intimidated

hadn’t planned this,

somehow it was here

and we appeared.

How should we address each other?

What should we eat?

Should we kneel or stand

in front of Him?

Our intentions are as different

as our bodies,

each with something to hide,

something extra

though apparent as we stare,

turn away, then stare again,

hopefully unnoticed.

His design confuses us,

we are leaves

attempting to negotiate a tree,

a flash of light

about to diminish.

He insists on faith

and loyalty,

we don’t understand.

Our minds are lassos

woven in questions and flesh.