..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Michael Rivet...............................................
Mirage
Black is not the color of rage;
Cold days of February pass slowly
When the wind howls
And long shadows stretch across snow.
Bedrooms become cages, prisons of your soul;
Through closed blinds, slivers of light
Grow silently against the wall
Like memories, mere mirages, in your mind.
Shouting echoes in my ears, but I do not heed;
Storms brew clouds, violent and dark
It will come regardless of consequence
Or whoever should get in the way.
Grabbing hold the windowsill, breathing deep cold air
I exhale to release a black fog and gain control.
Green Mini Van
I've never been angry with nature
Whose splendid aplomb
Vibrates with wistful fascination,
Branches sublime, bark humming,
Leaves tipped toward rain,
Animals camouflaged from sight.
Road kill increased in quantity
The confusion of green mini vans
Crisscross highways merging trails
Colliding worlds -
She's losing the battle
Are humans slowly losing the war?
We all have our green mini van
Families sausaged in for the long trips
Setting up housekeeping, nylon castles,
At lakeside the caravan parked
Pioneering with metal covered wagons
An American pilgrimage.
Whiskey Bar
Carousing in whiskey bars
A spectre in the tumult and stench of men
Looking for rumors of adventure
An excuse to abandon foundations
Chasing after the jabberwocky
Broke-down palace, and windmills -
She sang to me a song of hope
Ships lurking in oily blackness
Tow-lines dangling in happenstance
Surly growls from sailors
Dice in hand against alley doorways
Ignoring the trash and the rats.
Music betrayals, singer's back to me
Bungalow's rented by the hour
My map snatched up by wind -
Stumbling home, scraggly-haired
Keys bounce once from table to floor
Eyes adjusting to the darkness.
