WILDFLOWERS
What is love
but the dried up bulbs
the gardener insists on planting
to everyoneŐs objections
that irrationally burst
into magnificent dahlias.
The lunacy of uncertainty,
a fascination of delight,
most often unpredictable.
Wild grow
the flowers of the heart
in the garden of our lives,
wilder still
blooms affection.
SWEET PLEASURE
Sweet little chocolate
in the candy shop,
I gave your brown shell
a bite when no one saw,
took your creamy filling
for a ride in my mouth,
on my tongue
to all those secret places
where I might sense the nuance
of your flavored butter breath.
As you awakened my palate,
I tried to appear innocent
from the guilty pleasure
your confectionary sin availed,
greeting the clerk
with a tight lipped smile
as I perused the display
with you discreetly perched
behind my teeth,
slowly melting away.
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,
a bit more disheveled
than I remembered.
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 tunnelŐs light
when all others have drawn the
blinds.
ŇWalk with me,Ó 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 mindŐs eye
as I rap my fist
against the glass,
hoping the ghosts will answer.
REGARDING THE CLARINET
Having sought refuge
upon the avenue of artistry,
gathering power and capacity
through years of practice and work
to induce a resonance worthy of
attention,
I keep my fingers nimble,
and cascade between silver moguls
planted upon grenedilla grain
in a perfect cylindrical contour,
tuned and dripping with wetted
breath,
to play away the present, constantly
navigating dotted notes and multiple
flags
behind an expressive face,
the way a long happiness
melds cheeks upwards, inducing a
squint.
No lack of endurance compromises
the integrity to sustain the passion
which exudes from the parchment
upon the stand,
that stream of sound,
dissecting thin air in the room
with compounding ripples
until walls tremble
to the timbre of song
and slowly a brilliant varnish
builds upon the dull papered walls
and a new voice, like others
hidden in the world,
finds a home to sing or dance
or meditate in any place,
anytime I play.
Behind this face, in this mind,
where no one can see,
I have burned another color
between the letters of my name to
remain.
IN THE STARS
They suspend
like handfuls of confetti
thrown from the windows
that surround Times Square
on New YearŐs Eve,
clusters that never seem to move,
just shocking the sky
when they suddenly appear.
Like dazed fireflies,
they twist in darkness
and blink
when their momentum abates
so we might glance
a fading streak
before their lights go out,
which is why
we lean against buildings
and always look up,
why we sneak a peek
through the moon roof
when traffic stalls our progress,
why the affluent
and the homeless stare at the sky,
because solace and hope
line the dark ceiling
and the lamps
that bring the night to life,
hide answers to the dreams
that evaporate on our pillows.
© Michael
Keshigian
Bio: Michael KeshigianŐs thirteenth poetry collection, The Garden Of Summer was released
April, 2019 by Flutter Press. He has been widely published in numerous
national and international journals, recently including Red River Review,
Sierra Nevada Review, Oyez Review, Bluepepper, Muddy River Review, Smoky Quartz
and has appeared as feature writer in over twenty publications with 7 Pushcart
Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)