Poetry Showcase: 4 new poems by Michael Igoe

photo by Michael Bowman (unsplash)

By Chelsea Creek

Airborne jet of yellow          .                                                                                                                   over the Mystic River.                                                                                                                            Some ones seem carmine                                                                                                                                     the ones without any roar.                                                                                                                                                   Are they captives                                                                                                                                      of some lesser sun?                                                                                                                                            They’re in a song we sang                                                                                                                                when we were still young.                                                                                                                                                                 On a downtown landscape                                                                                                                                         sometimes a blue building                                                                                                                                   or an old crumbling tower.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    You're the defeated artist                                                                                                                                             who’s in search of a cure.                                                                                                                      I come to join recklessly                                                                                                                                                your cause at its junction.                                                                                                                      I don’t want to stumble                                                                                                                                   divided and conquered.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I seek your recognition                                                                                                                                                     as someone who pilfers                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     the coffers of Christians.

Thirst For Brown Water

There’s healthy sense                                                                                                                                                               in absence of intention.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         These surfaces                                                                                                                                             break quick time.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            This pool soon grows cold                                                                                                                               swimming within a frame                                                                                                                                       It’s seen in bad dreams                                                                                                                                but its contours altered                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       to mute heckling within.    

Midwinter Children

They tell their story,                                                                                                                                   of restless swallows.                                                                                                                                        In a random moment,                                                                                                                                   wearing rough haloes.                                                                                                                                    They felt oddly,                                                                                                                              about their gods.                                                                                                                                        Counting on the arrival     

Morning of the 27th                   

 Your shape tended                                                                                                                                           to render sameness                                                                                                                                        to all your moods                                                                                                                                                                                   all your darkness.                                                                                                                                      You made sure                                                                                                                                                                                        you spent time                                                                                                                                          putting me at ease.                                                                                                                                               In a few stars,                                                                                                                                            I  bear witness.                                                                                                                                  past the minaret,                                                                                                                                                            Those past the dome,                                                                                                                                  ones past the minaret.                                                                                                                                                    A satyr shadowed,                                                                                                                                                      one half is divine,                                                                                                                                              another half is                                                                                                                                                            odd among gods.                                                                                                                                    Gods worshipped                                                                                                                                                                           older, often naive,                                                                                                                                               rooted in rudeness.                                                                                                                                   

Bright ones remark,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    there's always a sky                                                                                                                                      playful each morning.                                                                                                                                                         Only one sky, but frozen,                                                                                                                                 issuing what came before                                                                                                                              to take liberty with virtue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
                           
          
Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

New poems by Michael Igoe “Lure of the Hunt, In the Same Breath, Exhibits”               

Poems by Michael Igoe : “In Certain Climates” & “Elliptical”