Monday, March 11, 2019

Two days ago
the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,
demanded restitution,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.
Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.
I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
for deliverance,
marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.
Convicted and confined to a windowless room,
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,
I was sentenced to imagine beauty
without embezzlement
and the wholesale exploitation of words.


He imagines us on the beach,
soft sand at our feet
just after lunch
when warm rays and a delicate breeze
bid us rest.
He considers my arm around her waist,
my body sideways against bikini curves,
surrounded by seagulls
that squawk for attention
and the litter seas throw.
It’s been so long for him. 
He has difficulty deciding
what may be real
and occasionally doubts
the idea of our very existence.

All day
I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal
ripple stillness
just outside my office window. 
An opera in red tux
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house
of sound, awakening memories
of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
I can almost touch
what once was
as it floats between
song and wind.  An inflection
so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
than to merely texture
the commotion.  His tune
incites another gift.
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.

In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into a cold and ruthless world
and noticed for the first time
sun’s reflection glistening
upon lake serenity
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.
And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen,
he fell to his knees,
staring mutely,
unable to excise
the swell in his soul
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.
Staring from the moon
in a dream
I saw people of Earth
meander aimlessly
from minute cavities,
following burrows
to dutiful destination
and back again.
Some moved faster
others carried more
and few were prostrate to fantasy.
Yet above each hill
hovered ghosts of intentions
not resting, but preparing
markers with singular openings
where well meaning will be placed.
On a tree
by a narrow street
upon an bending bough
I perch in a dream
over people in a field
hovering about
an empty hole
obstructed by a box
with contents
of what use to be me.
Some are sobbing,
most are somber
and few hide
a reluctant obligatory glint.
All see the hyphen
between random dates
engraved upon granite,
transform my toil
to a trophy abbreviation
for living.
Michael Keshigian

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...