Poetry by Michael Igoe: Chaser & In Garnet Light

photo from pixabay


Much too busy                                                                                                                                                   in the searching                                                                                                                                               for new kinds                                                                                                                                                    of bloodsport.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I can’t help but think,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   everything's the same.                                                                                                                                            In exponential panics                                                                                                                           owning to indifference.                                                                                                                                      But who is the mystery guest,                                                                                                                                   traveling on the mystery train.                                                                                                                                     He’s a long distance runner                                                                                                                                                                                                       in dismay while he fox hunts.                                                                                                                               Deep  in the vacant park,                                                                                                                    he lays down on asphalt                                                                                                                                                       he feels its gentle current.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      We recognized his many faces                                                                                                                           as the parts of a physical form.                                                                                                              If it happened otherwise                                                                                                                                      we couldn’t know them.

In Garnet Light

If it's garnet light                                                                                                                                                     we’ll be as lucid                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    as we’re tranquil.                                                                                                                                            Like the real name                                                                                                                                                           of our favorite sea                                                                                                                                                      on  moon’s surface.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Through the hole in the roof,                                                                                                                                                   stars gleam by the thousands                                                                                                                                           like the steel on an ax handle.                                                                                                                                                           Feeling bumped from                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         ever ready cat's paws.                                                                                                                                    Now the diesel howls,                                                                                                                                    demands are known                                                                                                                    for all of its payloads                                                                                                                                           So where were we,                                                                                                                                                                        here with the saint                                                                                                                                 You need to tell Joey,                                                                                                                                                    he's the younger man.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         He just left from church,                                                                                                                                                  one where his head hides                                                                                                                                                 behind the softest stones.                                                                                                                                               It’s the Angel Gabriel                                                                                                                                            he takes as a moniker                                                                                                                                                         the beautiful monster                                                                                                                                          I  will always rely on.                                                                                                                                              The kids at church                                                                                                                                             seem to feel sorry.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    “I am really sorry God,                                                                                                                                                                         for whatever I’ve done.”                                                                                                                                God tries to understand.      


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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