danwesbehind

 

Poetry by: PJ Carmichael ( Instagram )

PJ Carmichael is a poet, writer, artist, adventurer, and spiritualist from Wakefield, Massachusetts. His work focuses on his interaction with and the contrast between the natural world and the urban environment. He currently runs Mass Love Distro, a multimedia production and distribution endeavor.

 

 

Some Nights

The train growls in the distance,
flashing lights and bells obscured
by the land between
my house and Main Street.

I wonder:
a daring entrance,
a hurried exit?

In nine hours,
we’ll be waiting for it,
the travelers of this age,
running in circles,
awaiting escape.

(Full moons are much more
powerful than I’ve ever noticed).

In a moment:
vanished, replaced by
still calm, the night’s virginal
silence.

The world remains untouched
by my renderings
of it.

 

 

Time of Day

I write in the mornings
and at night,

and in between
I’m usually too busy
tasting the fruits of this life
to provide an adequately heartfelt
commentary.

(Each day’s a document
in this neverending library,
my own language incapable
of capturing such bound-
lessness.)

You’d be surprised
just how happily
I can wake up, unprompted,

reborn and blissful
in the arms of an unknown
world.

Taken for the first time
every single afternoon.

It’s impressive, really:
the innocence of soul,
the ignorance of sin,

an instinct to sustain.
Eye-opening sunrise before

dreams dissolve into waking,
another cosmic birth
before breakfast.

Sometimes,
the days drag on (a much-
needed lesson in patience and
perseverance)

but mostly,
they fly by in droves,
my skin being shed
more quickly than it
can thicken.

You’d be disgusted
just how peacefully
I can fall asleep.

 

 

Good People

I surround myself
with good people,

the kind you’d want
to eat a nice meal
with

or meet before sunrise
to go hiking,

the kind of people
you’d trust with a fast move,
a quick escape, a thought-out and
well-executed plan.

The spur-of- the-moment madness
type of friends, ones who know
the call of the wild,
the thrill of the chase.

They pass the time
with high hopes
and spirits;

they whistle on the way
to where we’re all headed.

(No worries at all.)

We’re good people
who savor the day
instead of seizing it.

We’re good people
who sing and dance,
trade puzzle pieces
of intertwined histories.

Some are a bit hesitant
to embrace our eccentricities,
but who am I to judge?