© Michael Price Inc.
Selection of Short Poems
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Page 3 of 8
| A Refugee of Palestine Walking on foot still hurt. The tomb, not quite a distant memory, its chilled air had brought a return of consciousness. Not only a function of blood and nerve ends, but with light within. Built like an ox, he thought, though beset with mortal stiffness, chest, shoulders and arms aching with the long haul from a mere mortal to the myth of myths. What would God, or perhaps his god have thought if the pain – a refugee with his own kind – were in vain? His drawing breath again must serve divine purpose though he knew not how. The final jab in his side sent the mind cascading , collapsing full speed to the centre of galaxies, and nails explode stars. That was the last recollection. Forsaken – by his own kind? Where would this journey lead? How long would his feet hurt? His only comfort lay with relative youthfulness and immense strength. Indeed, built like an ox, his mother would taunt. He was already healing. But images of that gruesome moment were still fresh. He looked into the discoloured swelling around each gaping hole in each blackened hand. There would be no return. |
| Requiem The angel we shall never know lovingly remote mourning between light and dark. In vain, we await a formal introduction. Touch her, and we know A puzzle, feeling her not too feathery presence expelling unearthly fears. And her moment is camouflaged: she divides light from dark for our comfort. Relinquishing formal etiquettes she becomes vunerable as silence. Life’s lesson is the shroud. The revelation: we have known each other forever veiled behind the light’s splintered tears. |
| Genesis Revisited Juices running down her lips, glistening smile of apples. Nothing to do with knowing anything. Delight in licking lips, ripe, not yet sticky - the secretion. All too much for a self-respecting serpent. More knotted than coiled - its thinking. But who are we to judge in self-righteous retrospect? Time to change the myth. The crisis, unavoidable, even languishing in the afternoon sun as lovers lick their lips before the light congeals. Liberating herself from the sorry story Eve devours three apples. No reason really. |
| The Darkening of the Light Why should we after words have been spoken have to chew them again trying to swallow them into the deepest places so their faintest echo should never live to remind us of that which was too quickly uttered, (even the thought given birth before its time though not insisting on its excusable prematurity)? And what more could the light be no less in its own darkening than the soundless chewing of its unborn light. |
| Microwaved Earth No one’s fault, goodness. Rebel angels had not understood chaos. Time’s realm unforeseeable, overwhelmed soul-body evolved into greater Oneness. All warnings unheeded. Great minds forgetting the quality of One. Chained in questions, science finds unprecedented sunburn in the midst of winter. Even in the fourth realm angels were reluctant. Second war in heaven. Unprecedented rainfall, but the trees still burned inside. After the war, soul-body suspended in the time realm. Immature souls finding delight and tragedy incarnated without precedence. „Treaty of Angels“, highest quality of One. |
| Three Skulls Flash of life wandering between the living and dead called to share her grave, assuming that worlds apart had worshipped the light- her head. Air - my hands, slumber consuming death. Even dreams distinguish. The world, no change in its tired pursuit. She had already found. Two other skulls alone grinning, undisturbed, long since extinguish dynasties. Pleading, their seed never sown. A goddess above all others, care unfocused. For its own sake, desire the present leading nowhere. Our time, birth of my death, and I held her. Flash of life, thirty centuries removed, "Nefertiti, Nefertiti" approved. |
| More than Astronomy Ten cubic light years, black and white on a grid, and a red dwarf bigger than we can imagine. Pain without mercy, another dimension, and convalescence brighter than we can imagine. Life on a dot, white on a black background missing the point, and death sings more significance than we can admit even when the anaesthetic lingers logic. A red dwarf burned to a cinder without compassion, and nerve ends burst from a soul more volatile than we can believe even when the light of another realm quenches our thirst. |
| Prelude and Fugue. Words’ corridored godlessness, Words’ imprisoned consequences, clothed thoughtlessness inviting discretion: and undoing the words' vision of recumbent nakedness, scents of abstraction, anticipated, considered, timeless. Anguish within words, longing under the surface of calm water sighing, calling for the wind to breathe upon the heavy stillness, brooding, reflecting, releasing a melody of ripples. |
| Almost Alchemy Sinking into the mirror we come face to face with the core of this life’s untold time. A fragmented shadow without grace clinches wishful thinking: lead into gold is not the only preoccupation. Sense of humour, our image in reverse laughs at the self-inflicted deception that turns our spirit inside out. Perverse moments vanish with a smile. But the thought absorbed by the mirror, where did it go? There! Into the crucible’s darkness wrought from discarded light warped by the woe reflecting labyrinths of inborn doubt. And as the alchemist unearths Gnostic melody (that god within the magic of creation, rather than the god without), we melt like lead, our questioned self-esteem just vapour. Wait! The missing ingredient lingers in the mirror. Hope turns to steam purifying the potion, the content bubbles light. And should the mirror shatter from toxic thoughts, would our vital force reflect its spirit in the silent chatter of broken glass? Light unravels the source of all souls like the mirrored ecstasy within a smile - the gold of alchemy. |
