mmichaelm Poetry (18)

I speak of it often
for what it teaches me,

beyond the senses
of its own despair,

I know it derives
an unspeakable certainty

of an elusive light-
hope, divine eternal joy

in the naked isolation
where my heart resides.

Yesterday, a reverie
of promises yet unpromised,

a miracle to heal
yet unbroken brokenness.

That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not now.

Tonight, as you turn from me
I grasp the soft darkness

of love's osmotic shadow-
thin as air, heavy as stone.

Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless, different,

despairs of its own statement,
wants to turn away, endlessly..

and spill into the acknowledgment
of the fixation I begin with now.

I dream a world
of my love and fury
riding wings of passion
into heaven to find you.

To hold you
gently as a cloud
as we take possession
of the stars forever.

She falls lovely to my naked bed,
silk below my shadow-
silhouette companion
traveling across these walls.

She sings lovely from her lips-
rings the moon with splendor
like a silvery haze
winding down waterfalls.

She tastes lovely on my tongue,
a flow of honey glowing,
sweet confection of the night-
wings of angels in my palm.

She moves lovely as the sunrise
rolling over sea waves-
rides the sun's apex
down to misty dawn.

She rests lovely in my eyes
like satin stars of heaven,
a shining jewel of morning-
rose and ivory in my arms.

Early light arrives
on robin-winged melodies,
the sweet scent of May-grey
dew fresh on the sill.

The rhythm
of our breathing
takes flight on the breeze
as we lie coiled
like ribbons and roses
on morning satin.

In the miracle of dawn
an ambient silence
surrounds our caress,
a sated quietude
in these ivory shadows.

Embracing this misty dream-
this cascading paradise
of earth's waking purity-
we consume its lucid sheen.

It is the light that binds us
with an assurance of certainty-
a silent secret we own.

A low sun rinses daylight
from skies paled by December,
the placid crunch of leaves
echo beneath my slow steps
in the late afternoon coppice
suffused by dark hazel light
as thin frost and traces of snow
pinch the air, whisper of winter.
From the house, a smoky scent
of ash and hickory exhaled
from the chimney's long neck
lingers below the treetops
then rises to greet an early moon.
I bend, grasp a handful of soil
still moist from cool autumn rains
and think of the raindrops,
their weatherlong journey here-
the countless storms in city skies,
lonely deserts never conquered,
erratic waves of unfamiliar seas-
finally falling to rest, absorbed
within this refuge of solid earth.
As the vanishing sun shepherds dusk
between the trees, lean shadows
evanesce in the velvet of nightfall.
Silent, immersed in the tangible nexus
that unites this still ground, my life-
I breathe, at last, the poetry of home.

"He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature."
- John Keats, The Human Seasons

The city vanishes
slowly in the rearview mirror
as my headlights splinter
frozen darkness
of this December back road.
Above frost-filled pines, stars hover
as winter claims the landscape.
Tires drone against asphalt
keeping time with the caroling radio
while my thoughts hang from the edge
of a cold moon darting above the treeline.

I think how my seasons are structured
with so many summers now tucked away,
neatly folded like blankets in a chest
only used to keep warm when needed;
how spring has become drives to the city
on alternating weekends
and autumn a deconstructed sunset
slipping somewhere behind the cloud
of a cold goodbye.

As I look ahead the snow is blinding,
ice gathers on every curve
winding through the night.
Tears freeze in this weather.

It’s that time of morning
when you abruptly
feel yourself being pushed
out the door of a dream,
hearing the solid clack of the lock
behind you.

You know the dream-
the one where you’re flying
in a free fall after skydiving
from the moon’s diamond landscape
sacrificing your body to sunset,
and just before you hit the ground

the beautiful stranger
catches you in her arms,
unfolding herself slowly to you
like a flower blooming
in time-lapse photography…

and then without warning
you’re on the doorstep
in the dark morning mist
ringing the bell,
rapping the gilded doorknocker,
frantically searching
your pockets for the key.

Past midnight,
in the black pool of morning
filled with brittle silence,

prayers slip and fall like stars
just short of heaven-

the delicate wires
holding up my life entangle

as injured ghosts rattle
and stumble in the dark.

The coastline fractured -
gusts of thunder mumble
in serrated skies;

the unruly demesne of summer,
dark voices of the sea, incessant sighs coalesced,
flutter in empty sleeves-
scattered clusters of ruin tossed and blown,

a salty mist trembles in the air.

Taking dead aim
at my heart,
you opened your mouth
and pulled the trigger.

September 11, 2001

The white-hot sphere of history
tarnishes the cerulean sky
as rigorous dust fills the streets
of the city now strangely foreign,
its pastel morning no longer confident
in the chromatic scale of its own weather
as vigorous citizens become
machinery of a ticking clock.
Bleeding dark roasted air,
blistered bodies and shattered screams,
the avenues of flags and industry
we once admired and favored
now long shadows
of a thousand points of light
on the high wall of a violent smoky sky
as peace fades in a trice
like the first syllable of the wind.

The rain echoes
back into itself, quiet descent
and slow waning
is the incredible lingering rain.

The sun rises
heavenly over hills-
a sunset at sea conceived early;
already signs of blazing rapture.

The you I see
is beautiful--
in flames of sea and heavens,
with stillness of quiet slow rain.