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 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. 






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.






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,


trickling indiscernibly  

through the pitted window 

of my mindŐs eye

as I rap my fist

against the glass, 

hoping the ghosts will answer.






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.






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)