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INSIDE VOICE
Michael Keshigian
It is the quiet voice inside his head,
inside his heart, inside his ear,
a voice with no pitch
no sound, electrical currents
which guide him,
the voice of experience
under layers of living,
the deepest voice, the quiet voice
the buried voice which speaks
to his unrealized life,
his silent life that no one sees,
a life he questions
when the voice beckons him to listen,
to lend an ear,
to convince his mind,
open his heart and heed the whispers
beyond denial.
THE BLIND POET
Michael Keshigian
He is the blind poet,
painter of colorful phrases
and flowering images
which describe
the landscape of his soul
and the soul of man,
his mind’s eye,
a canvas to pictures
unmitigated by sight,
unseen by others,
an eye which constructs sounds
into visions,
into a language built from dreams,
enriched with emotion and gesture
to depict humanity, inhumanity,
profound expressions,
unique impressions,
which challenge perceptions of light.
CARDINAL MESSAGE
Michael Keshigian
The cardinals were silent
this morning,
not a sound until the sun came up,
though they’re usually out
at the gray of dawn
to sing a song,
praising the arrival of light
which they long for,
crooning from treetops
about living
and the simple life,
insights they daily share
with us
in well phrased melodies,
hoping we stop to listen.
ANCHORED
Michael Keshigian
A boat anchored
under the wide shade
of an aged oak,
bends the lake
into a cove
where the vessel waddles
as the sun sets
and darkness envelops
the lonely craft
and the tree
and the lake.
Silhouettes linger
under starlight,
like lovers in the cuddy,
anchored to each other
at night,
shadows in the daylight.
HARVEST MOON
Michael Keshigian
Flame red,
a bouncing balloon,
the harvest moon rolls
upon the hills
on the bottom of the sky
till dusk departs,
then it floats upward,
a gold coin in the deep dark pocket,
treading heaven gingerly,
a bassoon melody
amid the starry ostinato.
The Earth replies with a subtle hum,
oaks and elms kneel in vigil
and moonlit cows, astonished,
stare as the glow swells.
It sings until heaven is filled
with orange splendor
and the plains of wheat respond,
flaxen fields which melt
under rivers of sweat.
LONGING
Michael Keshigian
Days of absence pass,
the dreary divisible of months,
and in sleep
he dreams,
he feels her skin,
squeezes her softness,
till roused by the stain
of morning light,
perplexed,
finding her pillow
had become an object of longing
and the counterfeit consolation
of a lonely night.
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