Head in the Clouds

Genius

Pas De Deux


Head in the Clouds

At least once a year,
on a clear, crisp Spring morning,
he hikes with a colorful backpack,
most of the 6200 feet
of a Mt. Washington trail,
dodging boulders and brush
to find a clearing
where he can spend most of the day
counting clouds that parade
the blue dome northward,
barely whisking the peak.
With any luck and to carry on comfortably,
he might locate a rather sturdy white pine,
climb a muscular limb
and build a nest
upon adjoining branches
with the gear he packed,
just in case,
then lay back and stare upward
with pencil and pad in hand
to connote quantity and types,
odd formations and densities.
Most friends might think him foolish
and he somewhat agrees,
being half crazy with the abundance
and wonder of it all,
delicious moments of quiet
interrupted only by whispers
amid the leaves
or the occasional crow’s caw
which awakens him
from the hypnotic state clouds invoke
as he realizes the dilemma,
a complete and utter fascination
with nature.

— Michael Keshigian

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Genius

That old, square piano
once a roommate of Beethoven's,
balanced precious stave paper scribbling
upon its narrow shelf,
facing the maestro's bench
amid the other empty pages
that lingered.
His practice room windows
were open that day,
a day of extended effort, work,
minimal result and frustration,
when the breeze, suddenly,
with three short bursts
and an extended breath,
flipped the empty sheets
upon the floor
and as the sun was reflecting
off the Rhine,
Beethoven scooped up
the blank pages,
mimicking rhythmically
those four repetitions
into a fifth.
— Michael Keshigian

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Pas De Deux

When the family sleeps
snuggly in their beds
and the shiny ashen discus,
so full of itself
in a winter sky
of scattered stars,
meanders along
its icy path,
he wanders down
into his basement practice room
and plays, in his pajamas,
an accompaniment
upon the muted piano
to which the heavenly traveler
and he might dance,
imagining himself
in a pas-de-deux
with the celestial nomad,
both content with loneliness,
content to be admired,
content with the enigmatic disposition
they might display,
distant nighttime nuclei
within their domain.

— Michael Keshigian

Above Poems
Copyright by Michael Keshigian

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