Magpie Tales 46- Poem: No Choice

No Choice-
You left me
like a hand removed
from gloves—
flat and limp.

What could you do?
The bird had no tweet;
the stem lacked any bud.

I was poison;
you water—

you could only dilute me
but always there would be venom.

2010© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 45

Blessed Mother, May I?


Called in the midst
of copious play

to draw stick pictures
in the clay.

To share among the masses
a jar of strained peas,
another of carrots.

Then turn the Happy Meals
on their sides - choking sized toys
be scattered.

So much
for a child prodigy
to do.

2010© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 44

Evidence

On the plump white hillside
there was evidence—

scarlet plagued splotches
and the lines of blades

slicing deep— parallel
and linear to a distant apex.

Red molded into the lines
like a train had severed a leg

and paraded the results
proudly through the countryside.


2010© Michael A. Wells



Magpie Tales 44

Magpie 43

Bridging the Gaps

The space that separates
becomes the mortar that binds—

lava winding through the highlands
of Nepal downward without care

a hardened dental filling
closing the decay

unifying all measure
of humanity.

2010© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tale 43

Magpie Tales 42



The Cup

Tell me again its history
the metal muscle – the fortitude
the way it survived
crossing the Atlantic
stayed within the family
through those early years
when famine forced much sacrifice
and trading value for sustenance.


Tell me how it was passed on
father to son to grandchildren
and when the male linage legged
it became the daughter
bringing it forward
and how it survived into marriage
and nurtured still at great cost.


How it paused briefly
in Independence, Missouri
and then journeyed
on west— surviving
Indian territory, hard times
again on the trail when other things
were set aside – at immense emotional price.

Show me the moth eaten velvet beg
that clung to it when you found it
packed among grandfather’s furnishings
where you plucked it free
before the estate sale.

And remind me when it is my turn
to treasure it—

in the time honored tradition








2010© Michael A. Wells




Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 41

Eleventh Hour

The eleventh hour

a repudiation of the one before.

Older, wiser, clutched the present

staking claim to so much more

then any earlier period of history.

Still this cannot be self contained.

Time is a currency that is devalued

with each passing moment.

The tarnished silver replaced and the

cycle continues. Each click of a second

the spin, an empty chamber of a gun.

–a misfire, misspoken pronouncement;

the anti-matter.



2010© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 40

The Medallion

The mystery may be better

than truth.     Her lips wore

the zig-zag stitches, secrets

untold. Wednesday nights

she took a eerie bronzen medallion

from a brushed velvet box

hung it about her neck and left

for a weekly women's social.

Butter and cucumber sandwiches,

crumpets, Egyptian Licorice Tea,

Moroccan Orange Spice,

and Redbush Chai.

Those Wednesday nights

belonged to her alone.

Dad never questioned

but we talked. We wondered

if they met to sharpen their knives

over shared husband stories

or maybe their bonds

were physical - touching on

what was then taboo to speak.

©2010 – Michael A. Wells – all rights reserved

        

Magpie 40

Magpie Tales 39

Making Time


A meager urge to procrastinate
rests below the surface-

I can look the other way
scratch in the gravel
and miss a good part of the day

if I'm lucky, no.
It's like a crime
that never pays.

My great grandfather
in his old age-
the hardening
of arteries years,
would move his pocket watch
backwards or forward
to suit himself.

He could make of time
what he wanted.

Few of us
have that luxury.




2010 © Michael A. Wells – all rights reserved




Magpie Tales 39

Magpie Tales 38

Here and Now

Time raps on

in an inconspicuous loop

and maybe we’ve been there—

who is ever certain.

The cracks in the earth,

an undercurrent of hush;

there are those who believe

on the last day the ground will split open

uniting bodies with souls,

those who believe

we waste too much on foreign aid,

and some who believe

they’ll have another beer.

There is too much

emphasis on perfection

among the living

anyway. There will be time

enough in the next life

to be the model citizen;

the kind streets are named after.



2010 © Michael A. Wells – all rights reserved

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 36

Light is Reversible and I Wear It—

inside out

snug about me

a compression bandage

that heals the anxious pricking;

nervous needles of daylight—

people I don’t even know
that pass me
that press me
that push me to the brink.

Day is my hell—
my holy hell.
I am safest with it
under my surveillance
at a distance.

©2010 Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 36

Magpie Tales 35

The Fall

Not all
falls are without grace
it’s not all black and white

the lush green
slowly ages
to perfection
and one day

we wake like the frog
in the pan on the stove
who only notices
he is cooked

too late to realize
summer has crossed
the line

and we cheer
the cool afternoons
brushed with color
aplenty

we plan weekend excursions
around watercolor scapes—
drive deep into their belly
and breathe the discolored air
crisp and thick
with ripe

and over weeks
all this too
will pass

all will slowly
lose grip
in a
last
dying
act

and gently
on streams of air
fall effortlessly
without a sound
to the ground
below

©2010 – Michael A. Wells – all rights reserved

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 34

Blue Heat

"Crystal blue persuasion....."*

When you were introduced,

grandma had that eye—

that keen recognition

that she knew         you

were the chemistry;

a combustible wick

for a perfect flame

swirling          searing

         climbing

the tornado chimney

to overtake any room.

* From the from 1969 hit song Crystal Blue Persuasion..... written and performed by Tommy James and The Shondells

©2010 Michael A. Wells – all rights reserved

Magpie Tales 34

 

Magpie Tales 33



The Other Woman

I stare into the mirror

at the dressing table.

Another woman looks

back—

a young woman

amazingly foreign

to the ordinary geography

of my world;

black dress, string of pearls,

she draws her inner wrists
to her face, fair in the silver tone
background—

gently the essence of rose
regal and voluminous
laced in lilac and vanilla
rises as she fills her chest.

How different
from the aroma
of tomato sauce
crowed out by basil,
garlic and pepperoni
amid the musty smell
of dishes from the morning
mingling in the sink with those
the night before—

2010© Michael A. Wells - all rights reserved

Magpie Tales 33

Magpie Tales 32

Time

A stingy creation of man
himself—

we are cursed
by its gritty currency
that will not be told
to sit still or held
but sifts through the fingers
and is lost in yesterday
and the days before
until reduced to memories
or specks of sand
one indistinguishable
moment from the other.


© 2010 Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 32

Magpie Tales 30

[two writes this week]

One Bite

All alone
on the kitchen table
red, freckled
and blemished;
awaiting a suitor
who could appreciate
my inner beauty—

and you came,
took one bite
and left.





First Bite

A violent sound
a chunk of an iceberg
splitting off the core
and falling away—

a starburst of juice
cascades over and about
the gums; roll to the tongue
exploding in flavor.

This is no ordinary apple;
one in season,
ripe with intensity
to awaken.





© 2010 Michael A. Wells



Magpie Tales 30

A Writers Cottage

It’s where quaint and secluded
merge back from the road,
nestled in the verdant treed lot
where even the postman
never comes. It is here

by the fire at night
I read what I wish
till my book falls helpless
into my lap
until supple rays find my face
while birds scold me awake

and with brawny coffee
I embark on the new day
with the purity of paper
void of anything
and my head chasing
transitory images
to pen down on the page.

 
 
© 2010 – Michael A. Wells
 
 
 A part of Magpie Tales 29

After Work

AFTER WORK

The ringing in my ear
the desk clutter—
post-its, a pile of unreturned
messages, half finished report,
the missing file that haunted me
all the way home—

the stop and go traffic on I-70,
sloshed latte in my lap,
the SUV on my ass,
news of floods, more IEDs,
unemployment, casualties,
mosque, no mosque—

all dispersed in a floral medley
of gentle bath bubbles and oils
nibbling my toes.


© 2010 – Michael A. Wells



Part of Magpie Tales 28