Jochanal (after Wilde)
Now, John was not a bad looking dude-
a smelly diamond in the rough. All the same
when he snubbed her in the market place
she burned with shame.
'Mama', she complained, 'he was RUDE!
and clearly at blame.'
She was nonetheless a bit surprised,
when Herod, shaking off his trance
smiled and pledged her 'whatever'
merely for dancing a dance,
and when Mama commanded
'Child, his head'.
What could she do?
She must, as the law bid,
study to be a dutiful daughter;
so, richly scented, grazing his leg, she pled
for the simple gift
of John the Baptist's head.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Museum Of The City Of...III
What were they looking for, there,
so long ago?
a diplomat's corpse, bound, gagged and fish-mauled?
(for whatever it's current deficits, this city once had Edge,
and blossomed in the Deuteronium spritz of the Cold War,
til things...rent, got so expensive-Why?)
The soon-to-be end of a quest
cracked by a 'facilitated' confession in some precinct back room
under the kliegs,
by such means as would make New York Law And Order's look tame
and low-tech as a wrist watch,
from some Bond-type con with good legs,
sitting hands shackled behind him, erect in a swivel chair?
A chest of plutonium, lead-lined, of course?
A water-proof safe filled with numbered, stolen bills?
The crown jewels? And if so, who's?
Letters of transit issued to some Soviet spy?
dating from a time when America unabashedly bossed the U.N.,
as it should, no? ,
and people could travel with pride and impunity,
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Farewell To Skiathos
Farewell to Skiathos
maybe forever
maybe forever
ehe ghia!
Here in the steerage
Skiathos receding
into the mists
of fancy and time
Arms of the village
opening gently
beckoning brightly
bidding goodbye
Maybe forever
there on the billow
hovering brightly
scattering fame.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Swans l
Unruffled, they sailed the seas
their wings set proudly back on racks of air
stiffly but fluently, blown by the breeze
quasi-mechanically
showing all the world no care;
or like a canon with twin, similar themes
that ether-tread the air on one another's
scruffled moccasins, like brothers
heel, in file, shore to shore.
Now back and forth, they swing
placid, in my mind, drawing dreams on dream
ribbons and spider-tethers wound in their bills-
sole and only labor due them:
freer than ducks at carnivals
although they never sing
for that would mean that death's come, so they go
drifting mutely, studying their faces in the quick
dipping a dripping head below
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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When
When I sweat the big sweat
Shut my eyes
Shudder, die and descend
To the Stygian shore
(which may look alot like the Hudson
Only darker-sliding) ,
I will quickly locate the ferry gate
And after a little wait
Offer its famous boatsman a poem
Noting it my only fare.
Then, I predict, he'll sniff 'what's this for',
(having known every past form of coercion)
Shake it out, briefly, and moving his lips
Begin to read it, leaning on his oar.
I further expect, as he reads, to see brightening
His tired eyes, and a smile
To race his dour face;
That finishing the now-damp poem
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An Eccentric
Be virtuous and you will be eccentric-Mark Twain
Yes, she was a countess, she said,
but being of a mind concise and thrifty
added 'that, and a dollar fifty
will get you on the subway-'
A long time ago, surely.
She rode to harriers
not like ladies did, side-saddle,
she said, but properly astraddle,
following the yelping, fanned-out pack
over the hills and back.
Later she studied at Trinity
getting a 'dispensation'
becoming a gynecologist-obstetrician.
'Leave from the crown'? I frowned, expectantly,
'No, from the bishop', she replied.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Inside Outside
She sat on the bed quietly reading a letter
Inside the room was sweaty and dark. Outside
it was bright and hot. Hoping it would get better
she read on. The birds sang a negligible reel
outside, while she half-listened to a flute on the radio
noodling through the sheaves of an accompaniment.
The letter never got any better. One by one, its leaves
slipped through her fingers onto the floor.
Done, she got up to go to the bathroom
and splash water on her face. Nice to believe
that what she decided was based on principle,
she thought, but she suspected it wasn't at all,
But rather on merest Need-like some old-time
marriages, which is a kind of principle, after all,
the mother of them all, the mother of all motives:
Maybe principle doesn't exist at all, she thought,
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Answers
There are lots of questions
some good, none bad.
Time, overwhelmed,
and finally a little bored with so many questions,
answers all the same
not maliciously but frankly
because Time has found
the answer unvarying, always the same.
Time, the adjudicator
whose eyes are green stones, by the way, nods and gently says
'yes, Joy is real, but temporary;
entirely valid, it's case.
Go for it, go for it, whatever-
at all and every stage
All and every....stage', Time intones,
Then turning meditative
and almost forgetting the question,
'just do no harm.
But don't expect it to last-
that's fool's work;
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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An Intruder
The screen door creaked open.
The plein-aire sun aimed blinding white shafts
at the plated seed-boxes, heating up their hulls.
Inside, Marcellina made her mournful confession
'Rinconosci in questo amplesso'
a laugh, no matter how often you hear it.
Hopping hot the terrace tiles:
southward, the city vanished in smog.
The ESB glinted dully in its hazy pellicle.
I stood blinking in the doorway
wearing a sweeping, snow-white cotton caftan from Connolly's,
its cowl down, looking much like the priest of Yoruba
who lives in the projects across the street
and strolls to the corner candy store on Sundays;
or, watering can in hand
like the ghost of the season, fleeing
or a Roman fertility deity, of priapistic leanings.
White is cool:
For some reason known best to God,
darks drink in sunlight repelled by whites.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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Moderation I
Of all the many treasures
that fill my treasure chest
One of all I cherish
More dearly than the rest
Her name is Moderation
Moderation in all things
And men and Nature prosper
where she unfurls her wings.
She is fair as a flower
the dewy dropp begems
or like a morning pure and clear
the starry night indemns.
or even like the Morning Star
that pranks the new-borne sky
and flicks its beams more brightly-far
as nearby diamonds die.
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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