Metamorphosis by Michael L. Newell

One final time the old man erases the blackboard,
casually dismisses the class he has taught
for the last three years, and then collapses

into a chair to watch his life disappear out the door;

one or two students shake hands and wish him well 

before hurrying out the door to waiting cars

 

and summer vacation.  He is uncertain where

he goes from here, or whether he will ever hear

from the vanishing students, but it does not matter.

 

He has done all he can and begins to plan

his future, the few years between now

and the dark tunnel approaching ever nearer

 

day by day, a gaping maw about which he knows

nothing save his fear of nothingness.  He glances

at the door through which the focus of his energy

 

for the last several decades has vanished.

He stands and leaves the cocoon of the classroom

for one last time on his way to nowhere

 

in particular where he will have time to think

and write and begin to discover himself

or some reasonable approximation.  

 

A butterfly lands on his shoulder.  He brushes it off,

but it returns, not once, but twice.  He accepts

its presence, but eventually a gust lifts it 

 

into erratic flight.  Erratic flight -- the old man

smiles at the thought.  That has been the story

of his life, wildly veering paths which have 

 

brought him here to a precipice where he

will shortly begin his freefall toward remaining days

which summon him to discovery or despair.

 

 

* Previously published by cyberwit.net in 2020 in Wandering.

Michael L. Newell is a poet who lives in Florida.  He frequently publishes in Jerry Jazz Musician and Bellowing Ark.

A Final Gesture / Solitary by Michael L. Newell

A Final Gesture

Through the calm waters of a May night,

memories drift and beckon.

 

Standing in a field newly plowed

and sown with the promise of tomatoes,

 

I recall your face eighteen years ago:

steeped in shadows shifting

 

in a warm spring wind

that lifted your hair

 

and brushed it lightly

across your cheeks.

 

I reach carefully through the vines

of time to touch your shoulder

 

one last time, to say the goodbye

never properly uttered.

 

When I pull my hand back,

the fingertips are missing.

 

A mist seeps

across the fields

 

and beyond the hill a dog howls

once, then is silent.

 

                       Khilda, Amman, Jordan, 1993

 

 

Solitary

 

In body wrinkled

as ripped blue nightgown

tightly held, tightly

bound round her,

she rises from decay

of her bed, retreats

to living room to play

three a.m. solitaire

because sleep has become

scarce as years left her.

Michael L. Newell lives in a small town in Florida. His most recent book of poetry, STILL THE WORLD BECKONS, was published two weeks ago. It is available from Amazon and Cyberwit.net.

Sketches by Michael L. Newell

From a ninth story window,
a man watched ribbons of snow
twirl, swirl, and slowly embrace,

as they found a path to frozen
ground dimly lit by streetlamps
shivering in a cold wind; behind

him Miles Davis and Gil Evans'
orchestra were barely audible,
as they played the slow movement

from Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez,
merging classical and jazz worlds,
as the snow outside merged death,

the inhuman, with a pure beauty
that took away the breath of the watcher,
as snow, wind, impersonal streetlamps,

frozen trees, and an occasional couple
drifting past hand in hand, created
a strange land of life, love, death,

and the inhuman, all filling one vast
impersonal canvas, and from the room
behind the watcher, the purest beauty

of sound flowed, indifferent to outside world;
from the watcher's eyes flowed one or two
tears; on street below one child stood, face

and arms lifted to sky, a wild smile curving
upwards, her arms flung above her head,
and her overcoat unbuttoned, windblown,

as night, snow, child, watcher, wind, and music
merged into a threnody mourning and celebrating
all there is, has been, might be, is lost, and can be found.

                        Tashkent, Uzbekistan, Winter 1998

 

Michael L. Newell lives in a small town on the Florida coast.  He has a new book due out shortly, Still The World Beckons: New and Selected Poems.

An Old Couple by Michael L. Newell

Her voice in the night whispers above him,
with the grace of midnight breezes as they

breathe through trees. Her barely audible

words console him when broken fragments
of the past haunt his dreams, wake him

drenched in night sweats. Her fingers,

lightly touching his hair, and her muted tones
bring peace similar to a boat rocking them

on a lake's gentle waves while a cool zephyr

eases stress of a long day at the end of a long life.
These two are intertwined heart and mind.

Michael L. Newell lives on the southern Florida coast.  He will soon have a new book coming out titled The Harry Poems.

Eidolons / Swirling Wind by Michael L. Newell

Eidolons

Windblown rain-rusted

merry-go-round drifts in fog,
creaks across decades.

 

            *

 

Muted trumpet drifts through

trees filling park, a tune 

mourning time's passing.

 

            *

 

Crumpled voice of old man

sings Stormy Monday --

no one is visible.

 

 

 

Swirling Wind

 

leaves empty cartons of Chinese takeout

discarded cigarettes broken twigs

pruned flower buds and coveys 

 

of children in wild abandon

whirl down small town side streets

where I lean against a wall

 

holding fast to my hat to prevent

it from joining early evening fray

as John Coltrane with barely controlled

 

boldness explores in nuanced detail 

"My Favorite Things" on nearby radio

while a mother standing in a doorway

 

shouts chowtime to wee bairns who ignore

her as they bounce round neighbor's lawn

deep blue sky slowly darkens  

 

and landscape takes a deep breath

moon blooms above wooded hills

rafts of clouds tow it overhead

Michael L. Newell is a retired teacher who lives in Florida.  He has had five books of poetry published in the last three years.

It Could Be Any Small Desert Town by Michael L. Newell

the sound of a night train

sails through cold

desert air

in a small shack 

at the edge of a town

a young woman stares

through a window at the train’s

passing lights and dreams

herself aboard a boxcar

on the way to San Francisco

New York or Chicago

she feels the rumble of passing

cars in her body hears the whistle

looping ahead in darkness

imagines it announces her passage

on way to a new life filled

with music dance fine clothes

and applause of an admiring public

once more the train has faded into

a long empty night she slides onto 

her cot but is unable to sleep

a coyote howls nearby 

a cacophony of dogs replies

she knows she should drift off 

as she has the morning shift

at the truck stop cafe her mind

remains aboard that train

the wind rises and shakes

the walls of her room for a second

she thinks she is riding a rumbling boxcar

Michael L. Newell lives on the Florida coast.  He has had approximately one thousand poems published over the past forty years, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize.  

Soon by Michael L. Newell

Rows of students grimly scribbling, neatly

uniformed; they know they must

PAY ATTENTION TOMORROW IS THE TEST!

What about the day after tomorrow

and the day after that?

Another test?  And another?

Soon they will be tested on whether

they can have children or marriages

that last or jobs spent scribbling in rows;

soon they will have grandchildren

in rows scribbling, neat

in their uniforms;

soon they will be uniformly in rows

laid beneath stone and earth

with scribbling on the stone;

soon there will be only the stone

with the wind scribbling; soon

there will be only the wind;

soon...

he thought

and scribbled.

*Previously published in A Stranger to the Land, (Garden Street Press, 1997) 

Michael L. Newell is a retired English/Theatre teacher.  His most recent book is Meditation of an Old Man Standing on a Bridge (Bellowing Ark Press, 2018). 

Consider This A Restraining Order by Michael L. Newell

I wrote you out of my poems years ago

            no mas   no more  you were flung to the side

                        of one of memory’s long-neglected back roads

So why the hell are you sitting in the living room

            reading Willa Cather and listening to some

                        long forgotten punk band scream its guts out

Go back to New York and its bloated streets

            where the buildings spill out people like one

                        of those never emptied circus clown cars

I prefer my ghosts to be quieter sadder perhaps

            the images more like dust motes in a sudden

                        shaft of late afternoon sunlight

My memories should be more impressionist

            (less hard-edged tactile demanding of attention)

                        the sounds and words supplied by me

 The hint of flowers in your perfume is a nice touch

            but the music is too loud the expression you wear

                        is too sad I don’t want to pick you up

  And steal into the nearest bedroom too many arguments there

            c’mon the wind is rising outside you can

                        ride it back to where you belong

While I try to pack up the debris

            you always leave behind and store it 

                        in one of memory’s out of the way suitcases

Michael L. Newell is widely published.  He is a retired English/Theatre teacher.  He has received three Pushcart Nominations.

The Packrat by Michael L. Newell

No never no never no

never again cried the bent man to the wind--

never again will I dance to the fiddle

that filled my spring days with leaps, shouts, and laughter;

 

my back crooks, a question mark

shaped like life, my fumbling life

that stumbles through alleys, down piers,

beneath rotting bridges where children's voices

peal out: look at the funny fat gray bearded man

tripping over his bellbottoms, his seedy old bellbottoms;

 

I  pass lovers, my hungry eyes averted from their shrinking;

I pass lovers, my ears keen for every sound of passion,

scraps to feed on as darkness falls, as I creep under bushes

or trash bins, as my voice fondles swatches of melody

from boyhood, when the wind sang of flight into perpetual sun

and the moon and stars were a gem-studded shawl;

 

I pass lovers and stuff the pockets of my  heart

with others' dreams to be sorted through greedily--

I know somewhere in these volumes I cart about

is a life I might have lived;

now even fresh fallen snow blackens beneath my swollen feet

wrapped in rags discarded by the profligate young;

 

to see only others, or the past, is my motto

as I huddle in the undemanding company of broken bottles,

tin cans, and the mind's ashes…

 

 

* First published in Poetry/La (1989)

Michael L. Newell is a retired English/Theatre teacher and long time expatriate.  He is widely published.  His most recent book is Meditation of an Old Man Standing on a Bridge (Bellowing Ark Press, 2018).

 

The Intruder by Michael L. Newell

Writing this I feel a chill.

I say it's the night air.  I say it's the fan.

I avoid the door.  

I'm grateful the dog sleeps and senses nothing.

I leave all the cottage lights on...

 

A creaking late at night.

I cautiously went to the door, looked out

at the darkened porch.  He stood there,

bushy-bearded, hollow-eyed, shoulder-length hair spilling

across reddened cheeks and nose, staring at me.

I started to scream -- 

then recognized my reflection.  I tried to laugh

and went to bed.

 

Sirens fill the night.  Carol shouts

in her sleep, the broom crashes

to the floor, and ants trek

across the ceiling.

 

I came here a refugee

from cities, but outside is something

I brought with me.  When I touch Carol,

she shivers and reaches for cover.

 

 

*First published in Northridge Review (Spring, 1984), in a somewhat different form.

Michael L. Newell's most recent books are Meditation of an Old Man Standing on a Bridge (2018), and Traveling without Compass or Map (2006), both from Bellowing Ark Press.