Beneath the Shadows
Blades of grass and wildflowers,
we scribe,
forever in the shadows
of great white pines and giant sequoias,
hovering hundreds of feet overhead.
Their literary majesty
dominates the garden
of earthly expression
though plants among us
occasionally reflect beauty so pure
to demand notice
for momentary flower
and sweet aroma.
As fleeting specters,
our distinction temporarily adorns
the abundant landscape,
though ultimately withers,
scattering throughout
the forest of memory
into the realm of lost paths
and uninhabited caves,
where with sun’s gentle grace
and fertile soil,
another seed may blossom
to deliver a sensuous
if not abbreviated message.
Loneliness Motel
His little hole in the Boston skyline,
one window lined with soot
facing an alley
behind Fenway Park
where he swore the ghosts
played at midnight.
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 that same alley,
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.
Michael Keshigian has recently been published in The California Quarterly, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, and Panoply as well as many other national and international journals. He is the author of 14 poetry collections and has been nominated 7 times for a Pushcart prize and 3 times for Best of the Net.
