RELIEF
Let love be writtenupon the water of calm lakes
not upon rivers running.
Let it be written by a loon
while singing a lamentable verse
amid the hidden coves.
And when it dives gracefully
beneath the blue surface,
leaving only echoes of song,
placid water will condense
to provide
some needed rainfall.
MOONBEAM
Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning,
awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.
Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning,
awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.
NIGHTS IN CUMMINGS COVE
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 tall pines, stilled by the sheen,
waited till their presence
faded back to distorted disfigurements
to acknowledge the breeze.
The cold air was always crisp
and smelled of wild roses
that circled the shoreline,
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
that this moment of adoration,
the opportunity to commune,
would become a longing
that would follow him.
THE SONG WITHIN
It is the silent song
inside his head
inside his heart
inside his ear,
a song derived
from earth and sky,
with pitch and timbre
from rain and wind,
light and darkness,
in melodious form,
a song which guides him
with gusts of truths
witnessed from perpetual life
to which he listens,
the deepest song
the buried song
which sings his life,
intones his decisions,
chants his perspectives,
soothes his wounds,
his losses,
the hushed song
only he can hear,
a song which resonates
when life
challenges his convictions
and he lends an ear,
to convince his mind
or open his heart
and heed the lyrics
beyond denial.
Bionote
Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collections his latest, What To Do With Intangibles, published by Cyberwit.net . His most recent poems have appeared in Muddy River Review, Bluepepper, Smoky Quartz, San Pedro River 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.
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 tall pines, stilled by the sheen,
waited till their presence
faded back to distorted disfigurements
to acknowledge the breeze.
The cold air was always crisp
and smelled of wild roses
that circled the shoreline,
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
that this moment of adoration,
the opportunity to commune,
would become a longing
that would follow him.
THE SONG WITHIN
It is the silent song
inside his head
inside his heart
inside his ear,
a song derived
from earth and sky,
with pitch and timbre
from rain and wind,
light and darkness,
in melodious form,
a song which guides him
with gusts of truths
witnessed from perpetual life
to which he listens,
the deepest song
the buried song
which sings his life,
intones his decisions,
chants his perspectives,
soothes his wounds,
his losses,
the hushed song
only he can hear,
a song which resonates
when life
challenges his convictions
and he lends an ear,
to convince his mind
or open his heart
and heed the lyrics
beyond denial.
Bionote
Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collections his latest, What To Do With Intangibles, published by Cyberwit.net . His most recent poems have appeared in Muddy River Review, Bluepepper, Smoky Quartz, San Pedro River 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.
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