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Baird, Meg |
Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
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Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
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Blakey, James |
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Bracken, Michael |
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Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
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Cancel, Charlie |
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Centorbi, David Calogero |
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Crist, Kenneth James |
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Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
Degani, Gay |
De Neve, M. A. |
Dika, Hala |
Dillon, John J. |
Dinsmoor, Robert |
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Johns. Roger |
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Karl, Frank S. |
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Kennedy, Cecilia |
Keshigian, Michael |
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Young, Mark |
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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.
MIDNIGHT MOLT by Michael Keshigian He sat upon the veranda, straining to
put pen to paper, pursuing thoughts that
might relieve the unexplained irritability haunting
him through the cold, dark moments following
midnight. Dim, iridescent moonbeams created
ominous silhouettes from shadowed branches upon
the wall behind that undulated menacingly in
the gentle breeze like a cobra with fangs
bared that without notice, precisely
entangled his hair and delicately penetrated the
smooth surface of skin, reaching the recesses of
his brain to charm stubborn words and nocturnal
thoughts from out the lair that
incited him to inscribe, upon fresh molt, a
venom which would devour an unsuspecting prey.
MOMENTS
BEFORE AWAKENING by Michael Keshigian From the bleak canister of a nightmare the
sun suddenly blazed and he leaped out from the
flames, swept up by the wind, cruising the fiery
rays that melted crimson layers of burning clouds, catching
a flock of cardinals, bloodied and dripping red, soaring
then diving like bombers on a mission, globs
of matted down, splattering upon barren
landscape, their orange beaks snipping
gobbets of ash from embers that
crowded the air, gobbets that darkened his
face, slickened his hair with soot and buried his
feet in the residual cinders, his toes curdling in the puddles of black rain like
the talons of a red-tailed hawk about to yank him
out of this dream.
THE MESSENGER by Michael Keshigian Approaching dusk breaks his heart, the
rising moon represents nothing more than a source of
inactivity, because, of course, he loves the dawn, the
noisy, cacophonous conversations of birds, bugs, and bees in
buds, forging him forward in khaki shorts and sleeveless
attire to sit in the park and celebrate life. But he senses
the moment has arrived and his levels of attainment
have climaxed as he turns to notice a dove perched
on the bench alongside, a handsome specimen with
dark eyes and snow-white down, though its tail
feathers streaked rainbow colors from which
he inferred that the fowl had flown from paradise to
become his guide through an enchanting journey, helping him
navigate the shadows of lore toward a place where blue
walls radiate a continuous light behind the black sheet stars
attempt to obscure, where he will sit upon a
stool of sunshine and this messenger muse will explain all, reinforcing
the significance of his presence, how his efforts
will influence rather than evaporate in a toxic doom the
sciences foresee, that the heavens will not
collapse, that he was not born by chance to
occupy a temporary space in a cryptic, accidental
place. Michael Keshigian had his 14th poetry
collection, What to Do With Intangibles released by Cyberwit.net.
He has been published in numerous national and international journals, including Oyez
Review, Red River Review, Sierra Nevada College Review, Oklahoma Review,
and Chiron Review and has appeared as feature writer in twenty publications with
7 Pushcart Prize and 3 Best Of The Net nominations
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