Poetry by Michael Keshigian

IN SPRING

BECOME THE LAKE

LIGHT

IN SPRING

Here come the days
when the sky shifts from gray to blue,
when the sun highlights
the purple heads of lilacs
as their scent fills the air,
when evenings becomes diminutive
and everything desires birth,
when the wishing away of time
falls to the adoration of the present.
The great gift of warmth oozes
while the breezy fullness of pollen
tints the earth upon which we walk,
propagating a sense of immortality.
The natural recurrence of seasons
absconds inclemency
and brings forth the light,
one that illuminates winter shadows,
subjecting darkness to humid corners,
toward which only the spiders can escape,
for when brightness dominates
we again believe.

— Michael Keshigian

LIGHT

It might occur
at any moment,
early in life
or later
when least expected,
the onset of light,
a future,
the coming of love.
Your eyes open
and the sun shines
for you,
clearing a path
to follow.
Evening arrives
and the stars
dance in your honor,
dreams puddle
upon your pillow,
moonlight forms
a halo about the bed.
Even old bones
in the body
become nimble
and radiate
the dust of hope,
flaring through
translucent layers
of skin.

— Michael Keshigian

BECOME THE LAKE

Feel the sun, its warmth all embracing,
it is you, you are the clarity,
the provider,
your residents pay homage
in the depths below the surface shadows
while you oscillate to the breath of wind,
lapping the beach line
barely within your reach
that moments before
you grasped with a liquid clench,
dampening the skin of earth.
You are invincible,
your duration stretches beyond years
into eons of legends
and long submerged stories,
your essence regenerated
when the clouds bellow forth
their recurring torrents
to stimulate the life
that pulsates as a result of you.
You are the shelter that protects
those hovering amid
the villages of sunken debris
surround by patches of vegetation
that poke through your skin,
wavering in your many coves,
guarding the gulls that dive,
the snakes that wriggle,
the birds that drink with famished beaks
and the infinite clusters of insects
that skim your skin
and fill the air above you
with the confetti of celebration.

— Michael Keshigian

REUNION

A life believing in heaven
initiates living without good-byes,
whether you bid adieu
or wave farewell,
whether geography and distance
cease continued encounters
or tears of sadness
fill empty hours of loneliness,
it is still not good-bye.
Should a loved one pass
or a forlorn lover disappear,
it will still be hello,
hello again no matter what.
Each time the sun dips behind
ocean's limitless edge
or seagulls perch atop the pilings
as bathers glisten at the shoreline,
the steps toward the ultimate rendezvous
are set in motion.
The velocity of wind, direction of rain,
subtle shifts of your body
are all the same, a simple sign
that defines alive as a celebration,
and because of the bright, blue ceiling above,
reunion becomes inevitability,
a prize at the end of the ride,
for what else might you do
but to look beyond
the stress of loneliness,
the density of tears,
and the pain dark cells might inflict.
These hazards of chance
temporarily divert the ultimate end
which are enacted again and again
with the recurrence of dreams
and the sun's eventual arrival.

— Michael Keshigian

Copyright by
Michael Keshigian

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