Poetry by: PJ Carmichael ( Instagram )
Sunday Night
A welcome caress
from the night’s cool breeze,
wind beginning
to lay itself
lavishly
over the darkened
landscape.
Water is in the air
as Spring
creates
cyclical dreams.
The rain falls as
any does: pensive,
brooding, lost
in its own
thoughts.
My body craves
the bare of moonlight,
a forest secluded by
heavenly shadows.
My animal heart
howls in the naked
stillness.
Lost and Found
A missing pen
(a newfound favorite)
remains just beyond
my memory,
so is it really missing?
(The current instrument
will suffice, so long
as there’s ink
in it.)
So many times
it just ends up
this way:
contemplating the very act
itself,
wondering why
the day was so
uneventful,
searching for meaning
or a missing
pen.
From New England, With Love
We hide from horrors
(those of our predecessors)
but only for a
moment;
the fear of death
drives us to an
early grave.
(The fat of cattle
corrodes my heart-
strings.)
The Seasons come too soon,
leave too soon,
a cycle of ever-
present absence
recorded by those
who live long enough
to inherit it.
But,
Summer is here (again)
and with her,
another loss
I am baptized in,
hope to recover from
as scar tissue
finds the familiar stranglehold,
neck, chest,
throat, stomach,
liquid-filled lungs
in time for light-
hearted love songs,
the ones that last
for five minutes,
thirty seconds,
repetition (routine),
where nothing ever changes.
I can see my misery
reflected off the rear-
view mirror
en route
to the beach,
as the waves
continue to crash,
sand succumbing to
ocean tides,
erosion establishing
permanence.
