New poems from Michael Igoe

Penny Candy

Desires come as a living will,                                                                                                                     but these words seem harsh.                                                                                                                    Caught up in the Big Beat,                                                                                                                              no one wants to say much                                                                                                                                                     about an absence of desire.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Once I wore alcohol smiles,                                                                                                                    ready to embrace red meat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             In golgotha's secret versions                                                                                                           work from splintered fingers                                                                                                                           descend on through the ages                                                                                                                                         as immaculate suits of armor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Stained by tobacco,                                                                                                                                                                 feeding the hungers                                                                                                                                     weaved in my neck.                                                                                                                      Smoke’s kept on the high side,                                                                                                                                     in its wisps of  cellophane blue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Waiting for Monday,                                                                                                                                                                 when they trick me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Monday, we start again.              

Curtain Call                                  

Meghan tries to tell me                                                                                                                        exactly what happened.                                                                                                                      Like in cartoon shows?                                                                                                                                        One with various jitters,                                                                                                                                the woes and afflictions,                                                                                                                                     those in neutral ascension                                                                                                                     The fight for menthol,                                                                                                                                   borrowing something                                                                                                                                          from translux glories.                                                                                                                                                    Necessary to the plan                                                                                                                                   for cities of the future.                                                                                                                   Tinkering seems important,                                                                                                                        when the stage grows quiet                                                                                                                                          On next Ladies Day                                                                                                                                         the end to suffering.            

More Often Vermilion         

She refused any leavetaking                                                                                                                                           from a room where she lives.                                                                                                                                                             Comings and goings,                                                                                                                              seem just like staying.                                                                                                                   Here’s space enough                                                                                                                                             for blindly climbing.                                                                                                                                         With  a good  alibi,                                                                                                                                            moving more agile.                                                                                                                                                 To find her victory,                                                                                                                                                with a missing item                                                                                                                                 night skies conceal.                                                                                                                                                The sky rumbled                                                                                                                                        with victory cries.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                In these cries disconsolate,                                                                                                                          that beseech contentments. *   

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 Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe           

3 poems by Michael Igoe: “Bright Eyes” “Fun Lovers” “Bible Story”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Re-published poems by Michael Igoe

white and blue petaledd flower

photo from Annie Spratt (unsplash)

published previously in detritusonline.blogspot.com

Jamaica Plain Massachusetts

Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.
When you're done,
you must come in
Watch the sugar cubes
melt where flies settle.
Spying through vessels,
or an unlocked window;
trying them on for size.
You might want to recal
those Hell's Kitchen visits.
When genes sang in series,
from that psychotic candy.
Another time it was fed
to your downtown flock.
Take a look friend!
How we've grown!
Yes, we've grown,
and now's the time,
to make a descent
from our branches.

II.
I know how to tell time,
sometimes I tell the truth.
But this time-
I see flowers bloom
deep in the skeleton.

III.
Pull on the blue serge sashes;
bear witness to Jamaica Plain.
The darkest blue,
much like motifs
in the magazines
you leaf through.

Allure of the Novice

Rain spears in a spiral
with hammer and tongs
a condensed chemistry
lullabies filling the air
The coy workaday chuckles
from the slow motion queen.
She chose pared fruit
swollen by first light.


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 Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

New Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe

See the source image

Earth Redefined

I swore to value                                                                                                                                                       the life I gained                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         but life goes on                                                                                                                                                                                            in  cone shapes.                                                                                                                                                                                                I can’t resist them,                                                                                                                                  but I still see them.                                                                                                                                     When they shift                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      from a red roof                                                                                                                                                            to the blue one.                                                                                                                                                Something splinters,                                                                                                                                                         crunching underfoot.                                                                                                                                                                                               Someone asks if all beer is blue,                                                                                                   someone passes around a bottle.                                                                                                                              In an attempt to accomplish,                                                                                                                            what has already been done.       

It's Otherwise

I wasn’t so happy                                                                                                                                      born in a manger                                                                                                                                  a born hatemonger.                                                                                                                                                  It  can show up                                                                                                                                          in certain phases                                                                                                                                                when best man wins.                                                                                                                                                                         Lazy frowns from sisters                                                                                                                                         gather up on the ceiling,                                                                                                                                           they are able  to breathe                                                                                                                                              completely on their own,                                                                                                                                                                        Their limbs are freezing,  
                                                                                                                                                      preserved by turpentine.     
                                                                                                                                                                                                     Onto the next square,                                                                                                                                     advance even further                                                                                                                               dwelling there quietly.                                                                                                                               Where it’s clear                                                                                                                                           someone’s watching.                                                                                                                                                            To arch and bend                                                                                                                                                                        with every signal                                                                                                                                                                        you send my way.                                                                                                                                My firm grip relaxed                                                                                                                               in another hometown.                                                                                                                        But for all I know                                                                                                                                        it seems like lying.                                                                                                                                                Never mind pressure                                                                                                                                     contained by breezes.                                                                                                                                       Because I can't walk                                                                                                                                                                                                    without those hands                                                                                                                                                                         that move in a circle.                                                                                                                                                    I think I deserve                                                                                                                                                  to know exactly                                                                                                                                                         what you’re doing.                                                                                                                                               Then you can find me,                                                                                                                                                         even in darkest syrups.    

Sold as Whispers

I don’t find defeat                                                                                                                                       in what you joined.                                                                                                                                                      Often it’s reckless,                                                                                                                                                           to treat a disease                                                                                                                                                                                               with other diseases.                                                                                                                                                 You’ll fall to the earth,                                                                                                                                             back on the home front.                                                                                                                                    Trying to keep up the pace                                                                                                                                               watching yourself conquer.                                                                                                                         As a mule is sure footed                                                                                                                                      of value as long as it lives.                                                                                                                                               Strangely enough,                                                                                                                                                                     I have not yet died.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Because of piercing lights,                                                                                                                                                                                                            from a crack in the vessels.                                                                                                                                                They’re mementos                                                                                                                                                            creating distances                                                                                                                                                                 so easily brooked.                                                                                                                                                      With one voice                                                                                                                                                                                in delivering                                                                                                                                                                                    shrouded signals.                                                                                                                                                                          My delicate offers,                                                                                                                                                                                I want you to trust.                                                                                                                                                     I should know better                                                                                                                                            because you pilfered                                                                                                                                            from Christian coffers.                                                                                                                                                No wrongs ever done,                                                                                                                                                                     not to walk a free man.                                                                                                                                         You are recognized                                                                                                                                              as the fastest current                                                                                                                                                                to run in the stream.    

No Man's Land

Besides the music                                                                                                                                                                    was a flushed face                                                                                                                                 from a waking life                                                                                                                                                            built up on fatigue.                                                                                                                                                        Having no need,                                                                                                                                                                              for a sixth sense                                                                                                                                                    feeling the touch                                                                                                                                                                from an ending                                                                                                                                                                                 of  wire in a coil.                                                                                                                                               Surveying a scene,                                                                                                                                        knee deep in grass.                                                                                                                                                              Faces palmed off,                                                                                                                                                               as just sufferance.                                                                                                                                                          It’s as much for roots                                                                                                                                       as it’s really for kicks 
                                                                                                                                in the way it’s taken. 

Not a Chance

Aware just in case,
of hexed inhalation.
No need for school,
for crowds of tramps
in sunless courtways.
Holding hands,
brows furrowed

Pearl Harbor Day

We will welcome
mournful intruders
who abide in woe.
Anticipating an aura
from the searchlight..
Hunger for sweetness
gripped in its clutches
imposes the penalties
that deafen both ears.
Locked in the stages
of our utter disasters
compelled to notice
thick caked mud
and flies in clusters
on all the four walls.
Over longwave radio,
tired, resigned voices
giving the impression
no penalty extracted.
As the skies filled
with dive bombers.


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”

Poetry Showcase: 4 new poems by Michael Igoe

3 poems by Michael Igoe: “Bright Eyes” “Fun Lovers” “Bible Story”

3 new poems by Michael Igoe : “The Way of A Hero” “Tunnel Vision” & “Human Intervention”

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe

2 new poems by Michael Igoe :”Inborn” & “Funeral Lilies”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

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

aerial photography of pine trees during daytime

(c) Nicolai Durbaum on Unsplash Images.

Lure of the Hunt

It’s a loss of love,                                                                                                                                                               not the loss of life.                                                                                                                                  A sharp knife jellied                                                                                                                                             all of your ten fingers.                                                                                                                                    It  knew completely,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               you’re defiant quarry.                                                                                                                                 Tinder to paper,                                                                                                                                              then smoke to fire.                                                                                                                                                   Soon to be extinguished                                                                                                                         by a downpour’s advent                                                                                                                       free from its magic trap.                                                                                                                                    It devises freedoms                                                                                                                                best kept by newness.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         In unknown ages                                                                                                                                      or bloodshot eyes.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Let’s make a final exit                                                                                                                                                       from the familiar cage.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            For a different color,                                                                                                                                             to glow in the irises,                                                                                                                                   same as on one arm.           

In The Same Breath                                                                                                         

Much appreciated,                                                                                                                                                more often reviled.                                                                                                                                                Not ever possessing                                                                                                                           a right kind of radar.                                                                                                                                Everything couples                                                                                                                                               with insistent lights.                                                                                                                                   I know how to swim                                                                                                                                           but I’m still standing.                                                                                                                                                                        I can feel the grasp                                                                                                                                         from another hand.                                                                                                                                                                               A wolf in sheep’s clothing,                                                                                                                                      with his hand on his wallet.   

 Exhibits    

Blind as a bat                                                                                                                                                                    but a prowler.                                                                                                                                                                                                                         In wait for a quarry,                                                                                                                                                               one easily recognized.                                                                                                                                                                I got this itch                                                                                                                                             I can’t scratch.                                                                                                                                             There’s real meaning,                                                                                                                                                                                    in everything I say.                                                                                                                                                      I hope I can find                                                                                                                                                                             a darkroom photo                                                                                                                                       of last year's body.                                                                                                                                       It’s most likely buried                                                                                                                                                                                 in a museum collection.        

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 from Michael Igoe

Re-published poems by Michael Igoe
  
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                                                

Poetry Showcase: 4 new poems by Michael Igoe

aerial view of green and yellow trees beside body of water during daytime

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”