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.

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)