Yellow Mama Archives

Michael Keshigian
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
Babbs, James
Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Bailey, Ashley
Baird, Meg
Bakala, Brendan
Baker, Nathan
Balaz, Joe
Barber, Shannon
Barker, Tom
Barlow, Tom
Bates, Jack
Bayly, Karen
Baugh, Darlene
Bauman, Michael
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
Beale, Jonathan
Beck, George
Beckman, Paul
Benet, Esme
Bennett, Brett
Bennett, Charlie
Bennett, D. V.
Berg, Carly
Berman, Daniel
Bernardara, Will Jr.
Berriozabal, Luis
Beveridge, Robert
Bickerstaff, Russ
Bigney, Tyler
Bladon, Henry
Blake, Steven
Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
Booth, Brenton
Boski, David
Bougger, Jason
Boyd, A. V.
Boyd, Morgan
Bracey, DG
Brewka-Clark, Nancy
Britt, Alan
Brooke, j
Brown, R. Thomas
Brown, Sam
Burton, Michael
Bushtalov, Denis
Butcher, Jonathan
Butkowski, Jason
Butler, Simon Hardy
Cameron, W. B.
Campbell, J. J.
Campbell, Jack Jr.
Cano, Valentina
Cardinale, Samuel
Carlton, Bob
Carr, Jennifer
Cartwright, Steve
Carver, Marc
Castle, Chris
Catlin, Alan
Chesler, Adam
Clausen, Daniel
Clevenger, Victor
Clifton, Gary
Coffey, James
Colasuonno, Alfonso
Conley, Jen
Connor, Tod
Cooper, Malcolm Graham
Coral, Jay
Cosby, S. A.
Costello, Bruce
Cotton, Mark
Crandall, Rob
Criscuolo, Carla
Crist, Kenneth
D., Jack
Dallett, Cassandra
Danoski, Joseph V.
Daly, Sean
Davis, Christopher
Davis, Michael D.
Day, Holly
de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
De France, Steve
De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
De Neve, M. A.
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
DiLorenzo, Ciro
Dionne, Ron
Dobson, Melissa
Domenichini, John
Dominelli, Rob
Doran, Phil
Doreski, William
Dorman, Roy
Doherty, Rachel
Dosser, Jeff
Doyle, John
Draime, Doug
Drake, Lena Judith
Dromey, John H.
Dubal, Paul Michael
Duke, Jason
Duncan, Gary
Dunham, T. Fox
Duschesneau, Pauline
Dunn, Robin Wyatt
Duxbury, Karen
Duy, Michelle
Eade, Kevin
Elliott, Garnett
Ellman, Neil
England, Kristina
Erianne, John
Espinosa, Maria
Esterholm, Jeff
Fallow, Jeff
Farren, Jim
Fenster, Timothy
Ferraro, Diana
Filas, Cameron
Fillion, Tom
Fisher, Miles Ryan
Flanagan, Daniel N.
Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
Francisco, Edward
Frank, Tim
Funk, Matthew C.
Gann, Alan
Gardner, Cheryl Ann
Garvey, Kevin Z.
Gay, Sharon Frame
Gentile, Angelo
Genz, Brian
Giersbach, Walter
Gladeview, Lawrence
Glass, Donald
Goddard, L. B.
Godwin, Richard
Goff, Christopher
Goss, Christopher
Gradowski, Janel
Graham, Sam
Grant, Christopher
Grant, Stewart
Greenberg, K.J. Hannah
Greenberg, Paul
Grey, John
Gunn, Johnny
Gurney, Kenneth P.
Haglund, Tobias
Halleck, Robert
Hamlin, Mason
Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
Hanson, Kip
Harrington, Jim
Harris, Bruce
Hart, GJ
Hartman, Michelle
Haskins, Chad
Hawley, Doug
Haycock, Brian
Hayes, A. J.
Hayes, John
Hayes, Peter W. J.
Heatley, Paul
Heimler, Heidi
Helmsley, Fiona
Hendry, Mark
Heslop, Karen
Heyns, Heather
Hilary, Sarah
Hill, Richard
Hivner, Christopher
Hockey, Matthew J.
Hogan, Andrew J.
Holderfield, Culley
Holton, Dave
Howells, Ann
Hoy, J. L.
Huchu, Tendai
Hudson, Rick
Huffman, A. J.
Huguenin, Timothy G.
Huskey, Jason L.
Irascible, Dr. I. M.
Jaggers, J. David
James, Christopher
Johnson, Beau
Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
Jones, Erin J.
Jones, Mark
Kabel, Dana
Kaplan, Barry Jay
Kay, S.
Keaton, David James
Kempka, Hal
Kerins, Mike
Keshigian, Michael
Kevlock, Mark Joseph
King, Michelle Ann
Kirk, D.
Knott, Anthony
Koenig, Michael
Korpon, Nik
Kovacs, Norbert
Kovacs, Sandor
Kowalcyzk, Alec
Krafft, E. K.
Lacks, Lee Todd
Lang, Preston
Larkham, Jack
La Rosa, F. Michael
Leasure, Colt
Leatherwood, Roger
Lees, Arlette
Lees, Lonni
Leins, Tom
Lemieux, Michael
Lemming, Jennifer
Lerner, Steven M
Lewis, Cynthia Ruth
Lewis, LuAnn
Lifshin, Lyn
Liskey, Tom Darin
Lodge, Oliver
Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
Lorca, Aurelia
Lovisi, Gary
Lucas, Gregory E.
Lukas, Anthony
Lynch, Nulty
Lyon, Hillary
Lyons, Matthew
Mac, David
MacArthur, Jodi
Malone, Joe
Mann, Aiki
Manzolillo, Nicholas
Marcius, Cal
Marrotti, Michael
Mason, Wayne
Mattila, Matt
McAdams, Liz
McCartney, Chris
McDaris, Catfish
McFarlane, Adam Beau
McGinley, Chris
McGinley, Jerry
McElhiney, Sean
McKim, Marci
McMannus, Jack
McQuiston, Rick
Mellon, Mark
Memi, Samantha
Miles, Marietta
Miller, Max
Minihan, Jeremiah
Montagna, Mitchel
Monson, Mike
Mooney, Christopher P.
Moran, Jacqueline M.
Morgan, Bill W.
Moss, David Harry
Mullins, Ian
Mulvihill, Michael
Muslim, Kristine Ong
Nardolilli, Ben
Nelson, Trevor
Nessly, Ray
Nester, Steven
Neuda, M. C.
Newell, Ben
Newman, Paul
Nielsen, Ayaz
Nore, Abe
Numann, Randy
Ogurek, Douglas J.
O'Keefe, Sean
Ortiz, Sergio
Pagel, Briane
Park, Jon
Parr, Rodger
Parrish, Rhonda
Partin-Nielsen, Judith
Peralez, R.
Perez, Juan M.
Perez, Robert Aguon
Peterson, Ross
Petroziello, Brian
Pettie, Jack
Petyo, Robert
Phillips, Matt
Picher, Gabrielle
Pierce, Rob
Pietrzykowski, Marc
Plath, Rob
Pointer, David
Post, John
Powell, David
Power, Jed
Powers, M. P.
Praseth, Ram
Prusky, Steve
Pruitt, Eryk
Purfield, M. E.
Purkis, Gordon
Quinlan, Joseph R.
Quinn, Frank
Rabas, Kevin
Ram, Sri
Rapth, Sam
Ravindra, Rudy
Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
Rhatigan, Chris
Richardson, Travis
Richey, John Lunar
Ridgeway, Kevin
Rihlmann, Brian
Ritchie, Bob
Ritchie, Salvadore
Robinson, John D.
Robinson, Kent
Rodgers, K. M.
Roger, Frank
Rose, Mandi
Rose, Mick
Rosenberger, Brian
Rosenblum, Mark
Rosmus, Cindy
Ruhlman, Walter
Rutherford, Scotch
Salinas, Alex
Sanders, Isabelle
Sanders, Sebnem
Santo, Heather
Savage, Jack
Sayles, Betty J.
Schauber, Karen
Schneeweiss, Jonathan
Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
Sethi, Sanjeev
Sexton, Rex
Seymour, J. E.
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
Sheagren, Gerald E.
Shepherd, Robert
Shirey, D. L.
Shore, Donald D.
Short, John
Sim, Anton
Simmler, T. Maxim
Simpson, Henry
Sinisi, J. J.
Sixsmith, JD
Slagle, Cutter
Slaviero, Susan
Sloan, Frank
Small, Alan Edward
Smith, Brian J.
Smith, Ben
Smith, C.R.J.
Smith, Copper
Smith, Greg
Smith, Paul
Smith, Stephanie
Smith, Willie
Smuts, Carolyn
Snethen, Daniel G.
Snoody, Elmore
Sojka, Carol
Solender, Michael J.
Sortwell, Pete
Sparling, George
Spicer, David
Squirrell, William
Stanton, Henry G.
Stewart, Michael S.
Stickel, Anne
Stolec, Trina
Stoll, Don
Stryker, Joseph H.
Stucchio, Chris
Succre, Ray
Sullivan, Thomas
Swanson, Peter
Swartz, Justin A.
Sweet, John
Tarbard, Grant
Taylor, J. M.
Thompson, John L.
Thompson, Phillip
Tillman, Stephen
Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Torrence, Ron
Tu, Andy
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
Valvis, James
Vilhotti, Jerry
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Walsh, Patricia
Walters, Luke
Ward, Emma
Washburn, Joseph
Watt, Max
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wickham, Alice
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Woodland, Francis
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zimmerman, Thomas

Loneliness Motel


by Michael Keshigian



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 the spiders in the room,

preying with thick overcoats

to catch the unsuspecting

in a web woven with smog

dimly illuminated with the little light

that penetrated the 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.

Cemetery Silence


by Michael Keshigian



He stood in front of the headstone

marking his father’s grave

under a maple tree

that shaded the parcel

reserved for his mother.

“I found that twenty

you sent me,” he whispered,

“found it in the leaves

next to the curb during my run

the day after

we moved you here.

I asked for a sign

and you thought of

dropping a twenty on me.

I knew it was yours,

all the serial numbers

matched your birth and departure date,

never mind the letters, all T, S, & K.

Money is what drove you,

but at least, this time, you answered.”

He concluded the one-sided conversation,

hoping for another sign,

but all that followed

was a long silence,

one that encompassed all the gravestones

and the rows of dead they marked.

He kneeled, got closer to the granite slab,

pressed an ear against it

as if to block the deafening quiet

that enveloped his surroundings.

Still nothing, cemetery silence,

the most disarming silence of all,

so silent, he could hear the still air breathe.

The Departed


by Michael Keshigian



Bereft of their earthly vessel,

they linger,

concealed within the camouflage

of blue sky, sun, clouds,

and willows weeping in the garden.

The leaves are aware of their presence,

trembling as a chilled breath

rustles each stem

amid the forest confines

where the birds listen then flee

to a higher perch,

sensing an invisible intrusion.

Why else do they sing,

but to soothe a meandering spirit.

And the shadows,

with their shifting silhouettes,

must be aware as well.

They disappear then re-emerge,

visiting that unknown dimension,

returning with a contorted

yet cryptic message

impossible to decode,

as they darken in the disposition of the sun

when it dances between the clouds

and the birds renew their song.

Should rain commence,

the shadows drown,

the departed shudder,

and silence envelops as raindrops fall

in preordained puddles

under watchful, transparent eyes.

Only the crow nods in acknowledgement,

opening his beak to address the invisible.





by Michael Keshigian



On a tree

by a narrow street

upon a 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 used 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.


 by Michael Keshigian


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.


 by Michael Keshigian


The old man has bad dreams,

he sleeps very little.

Up from bed

he walks on bare feet

through the darkness,

bumps then leans, from memory,

upon the furniture,

his beating heart

reverberates within the room.

The window facing the street

is a blackboard,

he squints for chalk lines

to delineate being

from being no more.

A rush of apprehension chills him

yet he continues

toward the bathroom

for relief

and another glass of water.

Standing silently at the threshold,

he listens for raindrops,

mice in the walls,

or a passing car,

but hears only the raspy breath

of lengthening nights

and the footsteps

of dead relatives

shuffling in the kitchen.






by Michael Keshigian



This is how it used to be

with him and his lover,

she taught him

a new song

every morning,

a different line,

her face

in the pillow,

tracing her finger

up the stairway

of his spine

with a weightless melody

until it filled his brain

and he sang

as he rolled over

to lock his lips

around hers

so she might sugar his mouth

with more honey,

her tongue tipping sweet melodies

backwards in his throat.

The day was longing

after mornings like that,

sunlight a lonely companion,

though the song droned

like bees in the hive

all day in his head.



by Michael Keshigian



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.



by Michael Keshigian


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 mind’s eye

as I rap my fist

against the glass,

hoping the ghosts will answer.






by Michael Keshigian


Early morning, a little snow

teases the outstretched branches

with the help of the wind.

It is cold, but inside the stove’s warmth

cradles the recliner in the lamplight

where he reads poems.

His fingers, thick and calloused,

flip pages enthusiastically

as he notices the shape of his nails,

much like his father’s,

no moons rising.

And like his father had done,

it’s time to contemplate departure.

One day, the stove unlit, will dispense

the damp aroma of creosote,

the book will lie closed

upon the arm of the recliner.

One day, a relative will enter

and acknowledge

that the house is empty,

no warmth, no breath, no poetry,

an indentation upon the seat

next to the book.

The change will go unnoticed

by the snow, wind, ice, and

those few crows meandering

for morsels upon the buried landscape.

He returns to reading,

the words delight him.

What would become of these joys,

he wonders.

Someone should take them.






by Michael Keshigian



It is the voice

inside his head

inside his heart

inside his ear,

a voice with no pitch

no sound,

electrical currents

which guide him,

the voice of experience                                                                                 

under layers of living,

the aggressive voice

the deepest voice

the buried voice

which speaks

to his unrealized life,

his silent life

that no one sees,

a life he questions

when the voice screams

and beckons him to listen,

to lend an ear,

to convince his mind,

open his heart

and heed the whispers

beyond denial.




Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2017



by Michael Keshigian



Upon a summer’s eve when the lawn

was not yet drenched with dew

and still radiant from the day’s warmth,

when the tips of white pines

rose skyward like long fingers

to tickle the underside of stars

as the evening air vibrated

to a cricket ostinato,

he laid atop the grass,

arms and legs extended,

and marveled at the infinite distance

above him with its clustered collection

of variously illuminated rocks and stones,

wondering what will become of him

once his time in this dimension ended,

where he might find himself,

what form he might take, and in fact,

would he be aware to bear witness.

His thoughts transcended

and for an instant he became one

with the mass about him

and believed he heard

his name whispered in the harmony about,

a single concordant breath, faint and distant,

like a dried autumn leaf

brushed by a wandering snowflake

as though it belonged,

not to him or his parents

who endowed it upon him,

nor to this place on earth,

but to the vast emptiness

and unanswered question

from which we all appeared,

to which we shall all return.



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2018



by Michael Keshigian



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 used 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.



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2018



by Michael Keshigian



If there were no rain,

there would be

far too little noise on the roof

or upon the windowpane

that would distract us

from the pulse in our inner ear

through the silence at night,

no gutter song to lull us to sleep,

no applause of wet leaves

for thirst-quenching relief.

In a cloudless sky

and barren landscape,

the rain would no longer

astonish our senses

with torrents that flood the riverbeds

then angrily fall from summit’s edge

upon boulders that spray

a foaming mane of platinum.

Car wheels would pass like a cough,

the absence of a splash

that might instigate our adrenalin,

administers calm instead.

The sky would no longer

be crowded with giant gray eyelids

that occasionally coax

the sun to sleep

and allow us to focus

upon the mysterious messages

their odd, translucent shapes impart.

Without the rain,

our very lives would drift instead,

fantasy vapors

against the cobalt blue,

twinkling and as aimless as dust.



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2018



by Michael Keshigian



Her eyes

and the lake

are his memories,

cobalt images of clarity

and purity, running deep.

It was in this cove

where the black-spotted loon

dove head first

into the heart of blue,

attracting the tender pulse

of her affection

inciting her

to follow the creature

into the watery sweep

tangled with milfoil

that snarled her hair

while the checkered fowl

dutifully hunted

for its young.

Her blue eyes wide,

blended eventually

with the ripple of current

that swept beneath the surface.

He visited that cove often thereafter,

especially those days

where the sun’s gleam

highlighted the blue ghost

within the restless ripples

that will forever

wrap him in riddles.




Art by Cindy Rosmus 2019



By Michael Keshigian


His home was full of collectibles,

paintings, books, crafts,

possessing various degrees

of monetary worth and desirability,

yet what he cherished most

were items of menial worth

but considerable sentimentality,

items that pulled him back in time,

a large coffee can

he painted green

for his three-year-old son gathering rocks,

elementary songbooks,

a dilapidated grandfather’s rocking chair,

springs so rusty

they would snap if weighted upon,

the old Doberman’s chew toy,

his father’s tools.

All buildup

from previous generations

he hopes his children

will have the courage to discard

as he did, submerged in thought,

with his mother-in-law’s mementos

while his wife

was lost in remembrance,

grasping old photographs

and birthday cards

she once sent with their children’s

infant signatures attached.

Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2019



by Michael Keshigian



He crossed 42nd to get to Fifth

towards midtown

and just paces in front of him

an old lady pushed a shopping cart

full of identity.


Bags of cans dangled

from each elbow

and clanged as she waddled,

dressed in clothes

worse than a country scarecrow


though her straw-gray hair

hung longer,

tied in a tail with brown hosiery

to match her stoic, weathered face

and it pained his heart


when suddenly she squatted

in a deep knee bend,

like she was picking

something off the sidewalk,

and there she froze


as he quickly approached

to help,

unaware of the problem

till a puddle formed

and its river flowed around his shoes


down the curb

and in the privacy of her mind,

she transformed

his sympathy

to confused helplessness.


Art by K.J.Hannah Greenberg 2019



by Michael Keshigian


He found himself at the symphony

where the sophisticated people milled about,

dropping names while drinking champagne

served in the entrance foyer.

A quite haughty yet beautiful woman

approached him, stepped out of her dress

and sat in the seat next to his,

her attire falling to her ankles.

She stated that only he, presently, 

and her husband, not in attendance,

had peeked the enhanced cleavage

created by her push-up under garments.

The spotlight turned from the conductor

upon his podium to highlight

her abundant breasts, 

though the diamond necklace around her neck

produced a glare that blinded his stare

and caused him to fall forward 

while the orchestra played the “Habanera”

from Bizet’s Carmen.

He awoke squeezing the ample pillows

upon which he slept.

An hour later, he stared out the window

at the rain-drenched lawn

when a black bear entered

his field of vision,

a huge, angry bear, walking upright,

with matted fur from the ensuing cloudbursts

that created a stick-like figure

when the beast turned sideways,

lifted his head toward dark heaven

and roared a window-shattering plea

then galloped toward the house for respite,

pounding thunderously at the door 

which woke him for the second time this night.



by Michael Keshigian



Barefoot in white slacks

and her husband’s sweater,

she plays the piano most seriously,

bungling Mozart with a grimace

then a grin,

the lamplight

flickered unnoticed upon her fingers.


The field from where her progeny 

once thrived has withered, 

grown voices and opinions 

have fled the confines of the arena

where music,

like a tranquilized tiger,

swerves again.


Her foot presses pedals,

fingernails carelessly flit keys,

and in her womb

a musician is conceived.

The house is no longer empty,

Half-full with sound,

she nourishes herself.

Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2019



by Michael Keshigian



Noise to his silence,

light to his darkness

she walks through his brain

singing and spins melodies 

in his head.


He hears her small breathing

when she hides 

in closets with no handles

and surprises him in the shower,

her body all soapy.


She slips in and out of beautiful

yet he sees her just the same

and sometimes wonders

how she arrived

and what her mission might be.


The years sneak by

like mice across the field,

yet she remains as inexplicable 

as her underwear hanging on the line 

in his basement workshop.




Michael Keshigian’s thirteenth poetry collection, The Garden of Summer, was released this April, 2019 by Flutter Press (available at and Amazon). He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and has appeared as feature writer in over twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best of the Net nominations. (

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