Beneath the Shadows / Loneliness Motel by Michael Keshigian

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.