Poetry from Michael Igoe – January 2023

Socrates Said He Fled Sex

We may have known                                                                                                                            the familiar erasures.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Of frog carcasses                                                                                                                             rendered at sport.                                                                                                                                                   We've been found,                                                                                                                                                      knee deep in envy                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              witlessly imagined                                                                                                                            for crying out loud.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         It’s the loss of power                                                                                                                               that oddly overcomes                                                                                                                       in a distant homeland.                                                                                                                                            He had sought the power,                                                                                                                                                     speaking from one cheek                                                                                                                                                              thought himself thwarted.

Stretch of Imagination

Our pecan inlaid table                                                                                                                             on the parquet squares                                                                                                                                   behind a derelict piano.                                                                                                                              Competing in infancy                                                                                                                               in a manner of stages.                                                                                                            Forgiving the mess                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        about they brought                                                                                                                                        the dime store items                                                                                                                                           same as in the Bible,                                                                                                                purloined on purpose                                                                                                                           completely breaking                                                                                                                                                                                                                                in the backyard mud.                                                                                                                            They dug with hidden claws                                                                                                                     at most all their Gethsemani.                                                                                                                                Yes, I walk gently,                                                                                                                             but in giant strides                                                                                                                         gifted by grinning                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             through every age.                                                                                                                                 A song you hear from the throat,                                                                                                                    one not of the spirit but the flesh.                                                                                                                            A phone forever rings                                                                                                                          I’m sure I waste water                                                                                                                                  when I sweep a basin.                    

2 new poems by Michael Igoe (October 2022)             

New poems from Michael Igoe                                                                                       

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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