New Poetry from Michael Igoe

Mother’s Material

All things dwindle fast,                                                                                                                                                    on left handed Sundays.                                                                                                                                  But with new vistas                                                                                                                                                         they hit the heights                                                                                                                                   directly on course                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           quieted by leaves.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      More arduous                                                                                                                                                    the encounter                                                                                                                                           more charged                                                                                                                                                    is the silence.                                                                                                                                                                                                              She met with a king,                                                                                                                                    and brand iron rulers.                                                                                                                                 With almost no hints,                                                                                                                                                      without a suggestion.                                                                                                                                    There’s no lip service                                                                                                                             in freedom of speech,                                                                                                                                        you speak your piece.                                                                                                                                                            She made her plans                                                                                                                                        to fill up long lines                                                                                                                                     with stuff of illness.                                                                                                                                          World weary every day,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    dealing out pantomimes.      

 Bad Apples        
       
Getting stuck in the teeth                                                                                                                   before each performance.                                                                                                                              They will fight this war                                                                                                                                    during the Age of Mud.                                                                                                                       It makes you wretch                                                                                                                                            with eyes that shine.                                                                                                                                The machine won’t give                                                                                                                                    any more amorous signs.                                                                                                                                              As for rapture,                                                                                                                                             and as for pain                                                                                                                                                    as far as coma                                                                                                                                       and for moods.                                                                                                                                     Finally a revival,                                                                                                                                             by ice-like games,                                                                                                                                          from daft opinions.                                                                                                                            Recorded by the brain                                                                                                                             are the dying concerns                                                                                                                               about consuming meat.                                                                                                                                 We’re on our way                                                                                                                                             to the meek forest.                                                                                                                                       With an audience                                                                                                                                                    for your last book.                                                                                                                                The Rape of the Lock                                                                                                                               is the only one I need.      

Exhumation Games         

If the lotus                                                                                                                                          came to be                                                                                                                                                     I can’t tell                                                                                                                                                 even if I try.                                                                                                                                                  It finds its place                                                                                                                                                                 in fields of mud                                                                                                                                             in boot imprints.                                                                                                                                                     We figure out,                                                                                                                                                 a watery grave                                                                                                                                       someday withers.                                                                                                                                                             We’re called upon                                                                                                                                                                                                     to burn our houses                                                                                                                                      houses in surrender                                                                                                                                                 to the three degrees.                                                                                                                                                                                                Taking good stock                                                                                                                                                             of a rigged chance                                                                                                                                                                         refresh the mouth                                                                                                                                                with a taste of zinc.                                                                                                                                                             Lure the willing                                                                                                                                                                    those most able,                                                                                                                                                         easy to convince                                                                                                                                                                    to begin revving                                                                                                                                                  their twin engine.                                                                                                                                                                                                              Coaxing them back                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             into their lean years.                                                                                                                                                               These antics entitle them                                                                                                                                       to know if they’ll drown.              

Copper Harbor

As to any decisions                                                                                                                                        there’s no real hope.                                                                                                                                                        In a merciless world                                                                                                                                  revolving around us.                                                                                                                                         Working on this one                                                                                                                                   continuing to seethe                                                                                                                                        will satisfy pretense.                                                                                                                                                The beauty of the domes                                                                                                                                                   is in the beauty of words                                                                                                                                     chosen to describe them.                                                                                                                     Words lead to severance                                                                                                                                   leading on to governance.                                                                                                                                    Here are the cold hills,                                                                                                                                      serving as boundaries.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   On slow float lakes                                                                                                                                                         of wine and honey,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                the uninvited guest                                                                                                                                                           will reach the peak.                                                                                                                                                      Emerges seldom,                                                                                                                                             remains present

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.
                                                                                                                                  

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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