*
Life sinks into itself–
Instead of lengthening, it plunges into its own
Sandy base and gorges upon silkiness.
Runs. Ebbs. Pools heartily, time.
And one starry-eyed morning,
The shore becomes the sea–with the salt
Left behind encrusted into monuments
Of the excess of divers.
*
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
–You, son of Erin, threw everything
at me save for the kitchen sink.
‘Tis a shame, for I only wish
to wash my hands of you!
(Also note that the great poets of antiquity
must be rolling over in their graves about
now with all the sensible things said around
here in these Midwestern states of the
American continent.–Why just yesterday
a man of some decent temperment told me
that crows were the most magical of all
the beasts.
Of course I told him there is no such thing–
Imagine!–as magic and all that sorceled
nonsense.
Oh yes–oh yes!–he agreed with me;
However–diasagreeable as he was told me
with no hint of uncertainty–Crows ruin
everything. Absolutely everything. What
greater trick could be than that?–
Presently he returned to the fields where he
resumed hacking at the cornstalks with a
fireaxe.)
Hahahahahahaetcetera.
*
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
The selfish go where they are wanted,
While the good go where they are needed.
And, the most selfish are envied, even by the good,
While the good are placed upon pedestals
By even the most selfish (far enough away
From where they are most needed.)
*
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
Boyish charm;
Boyish naivetee’ . . .
Something in the air was syrupy
As if the oxygen within could not remain
Unless affixed by a sweetened adhesive.
Nevertheless, my lungs filled and expelled.
And I understood you to be here too,
Amongst the clutter, although I spent my time,
Per plan, gathering the rest of your worldly
Possessions in cardboard boxes.
. . . All this scenery, so recently hidden,
Exposed, so casually forgotten:
It wasn’t the build up to these superfluous
Ideals but the wide open possibilities . . .
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
Note: This poem was partially inspired by
the book Heavier Than Heaven, a biography
of the late Kurt Cobain.
I opened the pages this morning and realized:
we cannot pursue anything
permanent, for nothing immortal has
an accessible path to acquisition.
Maybe that is why we find
death so fascinating: the unfathomable
nature of the lifeless; what has shape, has nuance
but no motion; even the stone, a sphere,
tumbling–
Therefore, I do not define myself by what
I remember,
only by what I’ve forgotten:
the mystery of my once burgeoning self
and the perishing laden upon all forward
momentum.
I don’t know anything
or I’d have departed this world for stardust
long ago.
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
In order to reduce the unemployment rate,
let us eliminate redundant jobs.
It takes money to make money,
so let us tighten our belts and clamp our purses.
We know this plan may sound absurd; however,
if everything made sense, you would not need us to lead you.
(Besides, none of this matters a whit,
for the wealthy reap their fortunes be it boom or bust.)
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
“Yet, the traveler who has just climbed a steep mountain
and sits down at the top finds a perfect pleasure in
resting. But would he be happy if he were forced to rest
all of the time?”
–from The Red and the Black by Stendahl.
*
I do not regret reaching my plateau,
Only building a homestead here.
Though the sun at this elevation,
Closer to me than ever,
Shines warmer and brighter,
The day is not longer or fuller.
(I once saw the face of an angel in the clouds
But upon ascending to the sky, I understood
That visage was merely a hanging mist.
From this knowledge, I recoiled . . . . )
See: the budding trees in the valley, pinks
And whites bubbling out of a long hibernation;
the dusty trail wound down the slope to its floor;
And the wind drags through the crisp
Blades of grass, makes them restless.
–It’s only the face of a wondrous child
But it is divine.
*
Copyright 2013 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
. . . nothing
long stretches of else
nor here nor there
waiting
its
wanna not
don’t know when out
self-wrangled unexpressed
its velocity is
broken through
the moment crater
useless
dug we are
when
said no
cannot have
is
Boredom
Copyright 2008 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
Exactly now desert
Restless
Hello.
I’m nothing.
We’ve never met a smidge.
Excuse my surfeit brevity
For all the naught I did,
Because I’m nowhere:
Never lost,
Never placed,
off . . .
An ode,
I reckon,
Your ignorance of me,
The effigy burns, loneliness,
The cruelest empty spree,
Because I’m muted:
Never heard,
Never told,
wisp . . .
Hello.
Once more, I
Admit I don’t exist.
Basking in my lack-thereof,
You’ll miss the simple twist,
Because I’m begging
Without pride,
Without shame,
me . . .
Hello.
I’m nothing,
Just words that must be read
To make sense.
Copyright 2008 by Michael Marsters.
All Rights Reserved.
(What’s a noun to do
Without a verb to carry it through?)
When the soft breath of night
Frosts the sky around the stars,
We sleep, renew our souls,
Unless the break of day brings
The anticipation of treasure . . . .
I traced the room with wakeful eyes,
Sprawled, unable to relax,
Substituting blinks for slumber,
While the grown-ups found their respite
From merry preparations.
In little ears, the sounds are real;
“Jingle” seemed to ring out twice,
Then “Clop” and “Clop” upon the roof.
Did I hear the myth approach?
How could I stay rooted now?
Curiousity pulled me quick
Out into the domestic mirk,
Lighted but by searing gleams
From the center of this night’s gravity:
The tree in all its new found glory.
I stepped with utmost lightness,
Whispering “keep quiet”,
Not thinking to refrain from speaking aloud;
The words just poured right out
For nervous anticipation.
Was the red suit stretching down,
That white beard hanging below the bricks,
Black boots alight the sooted ground?
No one worked to stock the tree.
The boxes sat in wait.
To guess the contents may be tempting,
But would spoil the quaint surprise
When I rumbled down the stairs
Breathless in the morning rush
For the fruits of giving.
And how the paper littered the ground!
–Not the toughest skin to shed,
Unless the ribbon gripped too hard,
Then time would stick ’til scissors sheared
And toys were freed to play.
I wish that time was stuck right now;
I’ve not caught sight in many years
Of the fluid flow of ribbon,
And little things don’t seem so big
Now that I have grown.
I see the needles on the floor
And know the broom must soon be worked;
It keeps me up in dead of night,
This and worries hard to count:
The compromise of age.
So, now the magic has waned,
And what remains is real
–Not bad for a consolation;
But sometimes I wish for more,
Wish upon on a star,
On top.
Copyright 2007, 2102 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.
Our lists were always so well represented,
Yet somehow I was always taken by surprise . . . .
