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Baber, Bill |
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Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
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Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
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Bracken, Michael |
Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
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Centorbi, David Calogero |
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Ebel, Pamela |
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Kanner, Mike |
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Keshigian, Michael |
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Zeigler, Martin |
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Zumpe, Lee Clark |
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SUNSHINE MORNING by
Michael Keshigian She looked so good that
morning. She seldom looked that good so early, like she made
herself up the night before to look as fine as the sunrise, gold tresses
surrounded her peaceful, pale face. So I stared at her instead as she
shook dawn from her brow and I whispered between
the rays, “you’re the light of my new day.” She smiled and opened
her eyes enough that I fell into her trance, a marshmallow
float in the blue cube enveloped by sunshine.
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 with her head
on the pillow, climbing 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.
WILDFLOWERS by Michael Keshigian What is love but the dried-up
bulbs the gardener insists on planting to everyone’s
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.
WRITER by Michael Keshigian He imagines us on
the beach, soft sand at our feet just after lunch
when warm rays and a delicate breeze bid
us rest. He considers my
arm around her waist, my body sideways against bikini curves, surrounded
by seagulls that squawk for attention and
the litter seas throw. It’s been so long
for him. He has difficulty deciding
what may be real and occasionally
doubts the idea of our very existence.
PANDA BEAR by
Michael Keshigian Because he was terrified of loneliness, he
granted me life and the ability to share
with him what little time he had remaining. I placated his
hours of isolation. With no mobility, he carried me
everywhere, onto the veranda with its view of the lake on
most sunny days and nightly, in front of
the television. I could hear him limping as he approached
from the hall, his gait, a telltale sign of concern. Will
he discuss his wife’s departure or the
considerable ineptitude of political leaders? Neighbors never
visited, they thought him odd, reclusive, yet I know he
would have welcomed even the most abbreviated conversation. No
one complained about him, he once entered a burning
house across the street to save the
wailing dog, observation, his forte, he knew no one
was home. The woman, living there, who
sobbed incessantly, occasionally waved as she
pulled from out her driveway. These midnight
thoughts are my only escape from his ceaseless
chatter. I stare at him as he sleeps. In the morning,
he will open the blinds and the sun will continue
to melt my button-black eyes to a faded gray. How I envy him.
I yearn for eyelids and a single night of obscurity.
THE SILENT POET by Michael
Keshigian In the beginning it must have been that
the Neanderthal emerged from his
cave early one day into
a cold and ruthless world and noticed for the first time sun’s
reflection glistening upon lake serenity between
twin peaks of a snow-covered summit. And speechless as he might have
been for images never seen, he
fell to his knees, stared mutely, unable to excise the swell in his
soul, and realized each
morning thereafter would speak
differently.
PERSISTENT DAYLIGHT by Michael
Keshigian He was caught in an endless day, persistent
sunshine, no darkness, a day that curdled green leaves
falling, rotting upon dried lawn spotted with
insects desiccated, fragile carcasses littered beneath the lessening
shade of trees. He walked between sagging sycamores, crossing
the street, asphalt which singed his soles, his
face aglow, burnt to a crimson hue, on
his way to the river where others must be waiting. Soon
he will swim under the soundless sun, water easing his
burns, submerged in the cascading current in order to
survive this day without end, dressed in a white shirt and shorts, a
luminosity that mimicked the sun as he approached
the shoreline where the crowd swam, he whispering
how the sun became a threat, that all will
suffer then dry, so we must sing before our remnant
ashes disperse, that an earnest song will bear us
wings to embark on our journey from earth, for
due to our negligence, the rules have changed and
our bodies can only go so far.
REBIRTH by Michael Keshigian Mindless,
aimless, devoid of harm, somehow an amoeba ingested me, wrapped its
protoplasmic single cell around my world with one pseudopod stroke and stuffed me
into a vacuole where I was
maintained with digestive acids that burned my
skin and cleansed with random
enzymes that floated in front of my eyes, my psyche reduced to its lowest
denominator, a fraction of the computation that
was me. I lost my arms and teeth, my
laugh and travails, left with only a nucleus until
mitosis, when I was born again with
a gelatin brain and no definite shape. ready
to ingest without prejudice.
FISH
COVE by Michael Keshigian Beneath the dock from
which he casts, the water is shallow and clear,
the
sodden earth that bears the weight of liquid
is
speckled with shoots that will eventually surface into a stage upon
which the
basso bull frog will perform his aria. Occasionally, a
cloud of dirt smokes
the clarity of the transparent lake and his searching reveals
the tail fin of a scampering bass near the shore to
spawn. He
sits and watches amid the Spring warmth and delicate breezes which
incite the lake to gently slap the dock. He no longer dangles
the bait to
tease the unsuspecting, no longer allows temptation to linger, that same lure which spurred him to
seek refuge
and the simple poem this silent swimmer strokes
with her fin. To read her verse within
the enclosure of this cove is the remedy by which he turns from the
commotion in his own life, a commotion he has
no desire to impart.
THIEF by Michael
Keshigian Two days ago the sun
caught me stealing light to illuminate a poem, demanded restitution, then reported
me to Mother Nature who posted my likeness about
the land. Soon, the ocean,
forest, birds, flowers, et al. filed suit for substantial
abuse and complacent philandering without permission. I pleaded guilty; admitted
taking breath from wind for deliverance, marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song, and
rage from the ocean to instill a sense of urgency. Convicted and confined to a windowless room no
writing, visitation or glimpses of stolen sights, I was sentenced to imagine beauty without
embezzlement and the wholesale exploitation
of words.
SWEET PLEASURE by Michael Keshigian 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.
COURTSHIP by Michael Keshigian She handed him his heart after she found
it amid the rubble on trash day. He gave her eyes, a pair she lost long ago on the beach under
the boardwalk. She gave him skin pulled
from the air, cleansed and dried it to replace the
layers of back-alley soot. He was stunned by the purity. She
found hands for him, discovered hers as she sewed them
on his empty wrists. For the first time in his
life he could feel as he then continued to carefully
assemble her spine, spit shine every piece and
set it in perfect order. It was a massive undertaking, but
he was inspired. He attached it to her brain and
she perceived subtleties, laughed and twisted her
torso. She attached his feet, he stood proud and
fashioned her hips, buffing each piece in place, they
gleamed, renewed, and working well. Finally, she
mended his skull, closed the soft spot, tended
the wound till it was smooth all over. He fastened her
throat, and attached her breasts. She
cooed, then oiled the tips of his fingers, he wiggled them
and mended her tongue with a delicate silk thread. She
traced his neck with soft pink scrolls, he sunk into place
between her thighs. Two souls discarded, they
gasped as they brought each other to perfection.
Michael Keshigian is
the author of 14 poetry collections. His most recent poems have appeared in Muddy
River Review, Studio One, Jerry Jazz Musician, San
Pedro River Review, Young Ravens Literary Review, Tipton Poetry
Journal. He has been published in numerous national and international
journals 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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