2 poems from Michael Igoe: “Intermittent” & “Cast in Another Life”

photo from pixabay


I'm sure the main distraction                                                                                                                           is the fan blades gentle whir.                                                                                                                       They always seem much faster                                                                                                                                                                if you stab your finger through.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Eventually in empty gray skies,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      it’s high time we show promise.                                                                                                                  At times we are warmer                                                                                                                other times in wet snow.                                                                                                                                                                         We were eating just a little,                                                                                                                                                                            but now we eat much more.                                                                                                                    The smells of cooked fish                                                                                                                    assaulting me after I wake.                                                                                                              It’s in the pan without a handle,                                                                                                                                assumed by a grip of her finger.                                                                                                              In the house like a cave                                                                                                                                              with a roof full of holes                                                                                                                                          time passes in a lullaby.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 We’re looking to regain                                                                                                                                                a mostly serious magic,                                                                                                                                          in all its sundry brands.    

Cast in Another Life

Things will never be better                                                                                                                                      than the way they are now.                                                                                                                      We’ll see no better                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
dizzy from the sun,                                                                                                                                                 than it’s panoramas.                                                                                                                                   It has its impossible obligations,                                                                                                                               at high noon shirked and denied.                                        
                                                                                                                                                                            Because it’s unbearable,                                                                                                                              the wait for bright light,                                                                                                                               when you lose eyesight.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      As desperate compensation,                                                                                                                  there’s redness in both feet,                                                                                                                                  and more redness in hands.                                                                                                                                   More from frost,                                                                                                                                                    than warm coals.                                                                                                                                     Charred coals                                                                                                                                         like cat's eyes                                                                                                                                fiery to touch.                                                                                                                                        The touch like a gladhand                                                                                                                                  from estranged neighbors.                                                                                                                                             

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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