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Michael Keshigian
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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.




 

 

DIMINUTION

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

 

On a tree

by a narrow street

upon a bending bough

I perch in a dream

unseen

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.






EVENTUALLY


 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.






WHEN NIGHT NO LONGER ENTICES SLEEP


 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.


 


 


 


HONEYCOMB BLUES

 

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.




SETTLING

 

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.




HOME AGAIN

 

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,

remembrances,

trickling indiscernibly 

through the pitted window

of my mind’s eye

as I rap my fist

against the glass,

hoping the ghosts will answer.



 

 

 

INHERITANCE

 

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.

 

 

 

THE VOICE WITHIN

 

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.

 

 

 


thebeckoning.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

THE BECKONING

 

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.

 

 


recognized.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

RECOGNIZED

 

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.

 

 


lackofrain.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

A LACK OF RAIN

 

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.

 

 


blueghost.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

BLUE GHOST

 

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.

 

 

 

hoardinglife.jpg
Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2019

HOARDING LIFE

 

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.

homelessnyc.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

HOMELESS IN NYC

 

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.

 


ym75hotsummernight.jpg
Art by K.J.Hannah Greenberg © 2019

A HOT SUMMER NIGHT AFTER WINE

 

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.



CONCEPTION

 

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.



ym75marriedlife.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

MARRIED LIFE

 

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.

 

 

 

UNFORESEEN ENDINGS

by Michael Keshigian

 

An old man lived here

before our purchase,

raised in this home,

he became a widower years later,

forced into reclusiveness

as a result of a menial pension,

lack of societal skills and death of his spouse.

It didn’t end well for him,

the neighbors say, always alone,

downsizing to three rooms

from eight that existed, enough to cook,

sleep, and exercise his passion for writing

in a six by ten area with a desk, chair,

and computer as necessary tools

to engage his fantasies

between appointed meals

at indiscriminate times,

piling dishes till the end of the week.

Stuffed in desk drawers

we found printed pages of returned manuscripts,

identified with his name and address

atop five to fifty lines of various poems,

trifolded, but extended flat,

no longer restricted to an envelope,

the second drawer, a file,

compiling a record of those efforts

no longer imprisoned in the first level.

A lonely story related by isolated artifacts,

a story neither one of us considered

would become our own.

A home withered, released by time,

as if severed by an axe

from the expectation assumed

at all beginnings.




THE PROJECTOR

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

 

Upon the old film projector

my father once treasured,

a few revolutions remain,

moaning as it casts

paltry images of black and white

upon the portable screen

as we seek refuge in a bygone era.

Rapt, we stare at the curdled frames

of lost memories, departed parents

and us, their offspring,

squinting at our younger selves,

we frolic under the glow

of ancient lights,

carefree lunges beneath

the cold-water sprinkler

that emanated from rusty faucets

attached to a three-decker abode,

the summers unfaltering,

we gathered, smaller, more flexible,

clowning, our parents, so young,

no wrinkles, more hair,

happy and healthy,

all of us summoned

for a group pose

by the off-screen director.

How silently time runs its course,

with strange, peculiar hints

if the changes are noted.

We yearn to climb back,

recapture innocence and joyfulness

the calm, silver light exudes.

Then it ends, the old reel flapping,

the brief nostalgic rekindling

has also run its course.




BOSTON COMMON

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

 

In order to think,

to contemplate and appreciate

dilemmas brought on by modern life,

he often took to strolling

through the public gardens

amid the calmness of time-honored trees

and sprawling greenways

that survived the patriotic acts of revolution,

just far enough away

from the street crowd and traffic noise,

building at the intersection

of Bolyston and Tremont.

Distractions down the winding,

narrow tar paths were minimal,

no vendors, beggars, prostitutes,

or public speakers attracting crowds

this day, only a place to find refuge.

So he reflected upon his quickly dissipating,

limited allotment of time,

his acquiescence to a battle

once valiantly fought,

his lack of owning responsibility,

the feigning privilege and apathy

gathering years seem to imply

and the folly of those who still engage.

A female runner skirted by,

lithe, youthful, amazingly trim,

stealing his daydream.

Boston is wonderful, he muttered,

the air so full of rebellion.

He wandered off again

into a comic reverie of pursuit

and the tender excitement of discovery.

I must find my running shoes, he mused.



 

 

NIGHTS IN CUMMINGS COVE

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

 

Those nights illuminated by the moon

whose white dagger severed the wet surface,

highlighted the stalks upon Gypsy Glen

which stretched off the shoal

into the crooked air

and the lake wore a tarnished chink

upon its silver armor.

The white pines, stilled by the sheen,

waited till their presence

faded back to distorted disfigurements.

The cold air was always crisp

and smelled of wild roses

that circled the shoreline,

soon exposed as the moon’s silver eye

adjusted its stare toward the brush

and patches of mulch

gingerly caressing the lapping lake.

On nights such as these,

he would gaze at the cottages,

nesting beachside, their lights flickering

in night’s magnificent isolation,

little did he suspect this absence of adoration,

the opportunity to commune,

would become a longing

that would follow him.



DWINDLING KNIGHT

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

Life loomed large in childhood,

an acre, easily a mile,

the apple tree, 

a spectacle of gigantic dimensions,

germinating fruit the size of melons

amid grass and wildflowers 

higher than a house

and alive with as much mystery 

as the imagination allowed,

infested with long-legged creatures

and flying predators,

confronted by a brave soldier, 

possessing stout heartiness,

armed with broken branch sword,

trash lid shield and brown-bagged helmet gear

precisely slit for covert surveillance

against an enemy constantly plotting 

to overthrow the king, to rule the kingdom,

were it not for the worthy defender

daily engaging danger to ensure security

and safe passage for those nesting 

within the domain,

though the threat diminished with passing years

as did the proportions 

to a mediocre backyard, 

displaying a frail fruit tree

in grass no taller than ankle height

with no visible reminders of intense conflicts.

The enemy had disappeared,

deployed, no doubt, to younger battlefields,

accompanied by the imagination 

now desperately clinging to creative output

to preserve a degree of youthful enthusiasm

for an aging warrior.



LANDLORD

 

by Michael Keshigian

 

The tenants left him a bar of soap,

two rolls of toilet paper,

shredded paper towels,

and a ripped sponge mop with bucket.

He tried to rub the white wall clean,

discovered it impossible, 

realized they tried as well.

He decided to paint it over.

 

Hair choked the bathroom sink,

long hairs, male and female,

they both wore ponytails,

short of acid, nothing else would work.

The hardwood floor 

wore rubber scuffs and high-heel turns,

no doubt they danced and laughed,

but only broom-swept it clean.

 

He began to know who they were,

seldom did he speak to them,

the check always arrived in the mail.

They breezed through, a great wind,

leaving behind a trail of dirt,

a thank you of sorts,

the residual continuity of broken leases

and painstaking interviews.

 

He seized their soap, 

a green veined, marbled bar, 

curved like a woman,

took a bath

after he cleaned the tub,

and dried with no towel,

in the air

with the walls and floors.



 

 

 

Michael Keshigian’s fourteenth poetry collection, What to Do With Intangibles was released in January 2020 by Cyberwit.net. He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals, recently including Boston Literary Magazine, Studio 1, Edison Literary Review, Bluepepper, and Tipton Poetry Journal and has appeared as feature writer in twenty publications with 7 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)

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