Followers

Showing posts with label Magpie Tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Magpie Tales. Show all posts

Sunday, November 23, 2014

MAG 247 - Snowstorm

Snowstorm - Maurice de Vlaminck


There is harsh
biting winter 
with winds that cut 
your cheeks, water your eyes
blurring your vision.

A winter that numbs
your toes till you think 
they have fallen off.

A winter that stiffens
your back and neck
till you think you are
the only living example
of rigor mortis.

And there is the winter
with bare trees
whose branches lift
the snow in praise.

The winter whose sky
paints a canpoy
with white and shadows 
that cover us for days,
even weeks. 

The ground, the roads,
virgin white at first, 
the metamorphosis 
into sculptured drifts
ashen ruts in streets
a blinding cover
far as the eye can see.


Michael Allyn Wells








Sunday, August 24, 2014

Magpie #234: Starry Night

Starry Night By Alex Ruiz


Where have I hid from the wonders.
All above me the night is Calypso.
I am Odysseus transfigured.

I, Odysseus am caught by this night,
by each star's twinkle; jewels 
of adornment in your blue hair

flowing all about the shoulders 
of the earth. I am awestruck.
I the captured cannot

capture you on canvass.
My paints, my brushes
are unworthy of such beauty.



Michael Allyn Wells



Sunday, March 09, 2014

Magpie 210: Urban Decay

Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit



The floors crackle underfoot with each step onto particles
of wall and ceiling concealing much of what was flooring.
Each breath tastes of  lead paint dust. Curtains cling
to rubble on the floor like shrouds covering bodies 
except not even the dead are found here. Old chairs, 
their upholstery gnawed by time, their insides gushing out
from wounds. Personal artifacts left behind. A television
plugged into an outlet no longer attached to the grid.
Murals of water stain appear overhead;
signed by neglect, utilizing the ceiling as medium. 


Michael Allyn Wells



Sunday, February 09, 2014

MAG 206: A Day of Nothing Together



It's morning
you've got everything
I've got nothing

You've got work
chatter at the water cooler
lunch somewhere-    maybe
with someone.
a world awaits you

I've got sunshine
through the morning window
and my hat - only my hat on.

You've got world,
I've got window.

Look am me-
I am what you see
unencumbered by trappings-

I offer you a kiss-
blown without strings attached.

But  I remain here,
an offer to you-

come, let's have a day of nothing
together.



Michael Allyn Wells

Mag 206





Sunday, June 24, 2012

MAG 123: ONE MAN'S RELIGION



Photo of Orson Welles provided by Tess Kincaid at THE MAG


Along an egregious path 
beset with noisy sociopathic notions,

came a man with the raspberry blue sugar sticky 
of cotton-candy smeared about his face.

One hand groping his wants
the other loaded with Jelly Bellies—
practicing  his holy belief of entitlement.





© 2012 Michael A. Wells



The Mag 123




Sunday, June 17, 2012

MAG 122 ~ Likeness



Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher







Likeness

A puddle collective on the ground.
Mirror images mired in detail
reflective of all that's around.


Tracks and footprints form the frame
to cup and stabilize the fallen rain
of splendor in a muddy marsh.





Michael A. Wells


Mag 122

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Mag 121: What I Count On

Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte


The notes, lists, inventory of thought and miscellaneous,
my refuge for information is all there. I've come to depend
on a singular place; vertical and standing put.  


My mind tends to meander more horizontally
these days and often drifts off path. 


When I need to refer to something important
it is that assemblage of what-not 
stapled to the weathered wall that I count on. 


Michael A. Wells


Mag 121

Monday, March 12, 2012

Mag 108: Bobby Socks and Bare Knees





My memory of the neighbor girl
is burrowed in the back of my mind.
Tucked away all these years
this 7 year olds crush,
this awakening,
this curiosity,
maybe twice my age
definitely older

staked a claim on my thoughts
this afternoon—      why after all these years
do I recall the bobby socks and bare knees
how her flimsy dresses were forever
blowing in my psyche? 


How some cold mornings
her bare arms would grow goose bumps end to end.
I was hopelessly inquisitive about her;
she carried herself affable—  unlike any girls
my own age.  I didn’t even notice.


I knew nothing of pubescent girls at the time.
I only knew there was something different,
this one looked supple but sturdy
and even from a bicycle length
I could smell a difference.

Her father changed jobs
relocating to another area
that May.  I don’t recall
another girl for a long time.


Michael A. Wells

Magpie 108





Saturday, March 03, 2012

Magpie 106: Canned Art

photo credit: Bob Adelman, 1965





Through the eye's prism
rows upon rows of Avant-Garde
a canned future 
handy in a missile crisis - 
it's all good- art saves!

Cut into it if you must.
Preserved for generations
to come - taste it - um good!



Michael A. Wells




Monday, February 20, 2012

Magpie 105: Collision


image: epic mahoney



The future and history crash
in a flat lined hub of fiber optic nowhere.
The long gone party-lines,
core black telephones decried
 iconic -pink princes phones
that came to link transient families,
translucent friends, truncated business
associates and cordial customers
in a national dialogue.

Colorful language went silent—
we pause to reflect
we pause to listen to what has become
a chorus of tapping finger tips
chipping finger nails
but void of human voice
of human color.

Our mind is left to add warmth
and pictures to text
and try to find the humanity
in the middle of everywhere.

Michael A. Wells


Magpie 105

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Magpie 104: To Be





She finds it exasperating

she has the duty

to be—

the plastic clown

the elastic  cheerleader

the Wal-Mart greeter

picking up the slack

the life coach

the mom

the wife

spiritual guru

on the scrapheap of life


Michael A. Wells

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Magpie 103: The Surgeons Hands





The Surgeons Hands

reaching skyward the chiseled hands

cupped as a vessel

yet extended in exaltation

extended  fingers—   precision tools

against the distress of body

against the anguish of passing



fingers that move the veins of life about

that spread open incisions— explore - extract

supplicate the God of mercy

for the generosity of more time

more life



a precious organ

the hand offers

dear God

make this body whole

again



Michael A. Wells


Sunday, January 08, 2012

Magpie Tales - poem: Untitled







Utilitarian art

boxes in Duffy square.

Girders and panels rise

poking the Troposphere.

Windows offer a glimpse

of ground life—

crisscross traffic,

news barkers,

theater goers,

Father Duffy at attention;

Yul Brenner glares—

have you bought your tickets?



Michael A. Wells

Magpie99

Monday, January 02, 2012

Mag 98 / Poem: A Reminder



The bent elbow
slows progression-
force builds
pushing the river
around
over and beyond  

the banks like claws
snag what is delivered
from upstream

when the anger
has burnt itself out
the raging water fading
to original dignity-
scattered on banks
remain the wrath





Michael A. Wells



Magpie 98



Thursday, December 08, 2011

Magpie 94 / Poem: LUNCH



Lunch

Clock ticking
1800 seconds and ticking
rows of busy heads
bobbing and chewing
throats likes snakes
swallowing a rabbit
whole-

chatter
to a minimum-
like they each have some place
to go-
they do

half an hour for lunch
the the rest of their eight hour day

it's robotic-
circuitous               each day 
the same         each day
           the same



Michael A. Wells


Magpie 94


* photo credit - Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art

Saturday, December 03, 2011

Magpie Tales 93 / Poem: How Size Matters





How Size Matters

a time
a place to stop
a sofa
against a rock solid platitude
on the main street of a life
of obligatory divestiture
of  inflexible options
of throwaway propositions
of too big to fail
of too small to matter


Michael A. Wells

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Magpie Tales 90 / Poem: Company




Company


There they all are
together in their aloneness.
I wonder if they relish company?
I mean aside from the cadence
of the occasional passerby.



Michael A. Wells


Sunday, October 30, 2011

Magpie Tales 89 / Poem: The Gritty Facts



The Gritty Facts


There are vague memories
some fond some not
so. Much has changed.

The delete key absolves
a multitude of sins and wasted
paper. I don't miss

purple hands from carbon paper
if you know what I mean.
My youngest daughter doesn't.

When you were wired (old use of the word)
your hands would light up the keyboard.
The sound had its own poetry.

When you were stumped
the silence was killing.
No music to stream in

the background and shores to surf
at your fingertips. Your world cloistered
It was hard work. Dirty work.  



Michael A. Wells


Magpie


Saturday, October 29, 2011

Magpie Tales 88 / Poem: Espresso Spoiled


Espresso Spoiled


So many angles to consider.
Some within others

and building blocks
to something

bigger down the way
something maybe broken

or maybe just a portion
what we have discovered
of ourselves;

windows to see
what is real
what is fantasy
but the lines
blurred.

Einstein said—  "Reality
is merely an illusion,
just a very persistent one."

If the linear stuff is raised
or lowered on one end
what is the story line then?

You drove me into the city
today for something daring

my two shots of espresso spoiled
with talk of your stained childhood

even if it wasn't so
I wanted to hear crisp clean lines.





Michael A. Wells


magpie88





Sunday, October 16, 2011

Magpie Tales 87 / Poem: Lynching




There has been a lynching-

Mass retribution
for what I cannot say.
Was it the down in the pillows?
Not enough fluff?

Whatever the cause
these ducks hang in public
perhaps to make an example
though I doubt their kind
dip to do flybys
of the market district.

Someone will
take them home for dinner
celebrate their demise
with duck soup.



Michael A. Wells

Magpie