Magpie Tales 84 / Poem: Woman of Rain

Blood rain of the heavens

pounding earthward

arms outstretched to catch

all the violence nature can throw

at her—

losing herself to chilled veins

irrigating her flesh

thrusting her chest outward

her head arched back

an O wide to catch its fill

Niagara flowing over her lips

splashing into the cleavage below

her nipples rigid against the cold—

time becomes measurable

only as a benchmark

of periods of lucidity

of which second

has yet to occur

Michael A. Wells

Mag 84

Magpie Tales / Poem: Revenant

That I was surprised
at his return
an understatement
at the cold calculation
of his every move never

would the diabolical
alive become anything
less upon return
from the grave

perhaps in the depth
of his rest he might
think about our past
but can the dead think
and if so what would be
the difference

the cerebral gift he had
was plotting not thinking
certainly not feeling
not emotion     the cold
in life could not thaw
could not warm the heart

Freon pumped throughout
his body he must be
brittle cold -- unnerving
what can he want
from me --  in death
but to possess
the very warmth
of my breath
suck it out of me
and pull me under too.



Michael A. Wells


Magpie Tales



*photo credit - The Revenant, 1949, Andrew Wyeth

Magpie Tales 80 / Poem: Promises

An hour clocked

in the wet footprints

cast upon past

each fleeting step

measures an instant

a crack     a mother’s back

a broken promise

I will do well in school

I will not stray

trouble will not

be my downpour

raining in some dark alley

hunkered under red

umbrella from showers

there are no guarantees

otherwise

Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 80

Magpie Tales 79: Poem: Maybe if We Hadn't Thrown the Cores

That summer we stuck
in the seats of the old Ford
our cotton clothing
clung to us wet
no one dared crank
the panes-

a few bugs would join
the ride but soon exit
the heat I think drove them
so we didn't

who knew there was
so much Missouri
corn and milo
some tobacco too

I lost count of orchards
stopped off for apples
juice dripping down
the chin- 

hurled the cores
onto the highway
till dad got after us

we saw signs
for real caves
but never stopped


Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 79

Magpie Tales 77: Poem - Intimacy on the Porch

The intimacy of a front porch

on the summer night

was like no other place. 

The tongue and grove floor

was hushed as that they stood

still beside one another. 

Out in the yard fireflies

brought the starred heavens

to their level— 

all calm except

butterflies in their bellies

as each searched for words 

that can set this night apart

from so many other

date nights.

She searched the porch floor

for the right things to say

his eye traced smooth white legs 

subconsciously until stunned

by their own silence

their eyes meet— 

words no longer matter.

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 77

Picture credit: Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Magpie Tales 76: Poem - It just stopped blowing

like dead in the middle

of a gust that was whipping along

the plains and kites dived,

birds were puzzled,

cumulus nimbus stalled. 

The heat that summer day

grew stale—   idle.

Grandpa said that was kind of

the beginning of the end. 

Folks didn’t know what to make of it

still don’t.  The sun just hangs there—

nights don’t much cool off either. 

Grandpa tacked the wind mill blades

on the shed. Said there was no use

for it except ornamentation, and life was

mostly bland these days.

2011© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 76

Magpie Tales 75 - Poem : Cycles Sirius

All she ever wanted
was to ride
to let her hair down
to be a human streamer
on a world stage
far from her tunnel
childhood 

ride she did
a circus act
big as the night
she was Sirius
brightest of light 

taking the curves
smooth— feral flesh
blinking under a hot blue
sparkler strobe
woman reborn


2011 © Michael A. Wells


Magpie Tales75






Magpie

Magpie Tales-73 : Poem: Citizen Athlete

White cap waves
Atlantic in origin
breed man's self-indulgence
from biceps digging 
in the waters to full
blown sails pushing waterline
the nonchalant splash and slap
or power about breast
strokes their propulsion.
On the shore the fun
spills over - flat hand paddles
bang out points over
makeshift netting.
By night Martha's Vineyard
crawls with crab meat and oysters
soothing the hunger pangs
of the citizen athlete. 

2011© Michael A. Wells

 Magpie Tales -73

*photo credit: People of Chilmark, Thomas Hart Benton, 1920

Magpie Tales 71 - Poem: String Bikinis



String Bikinis

pantylines air brushed
into the night
blush Clorox bright


2011 © Michael A. Wells






Magpie Tales 71





Magpie 66 / Poem: Timeline

birth

transformative

thoughts to ink

ink to page

page after page

after page

pressed

bound

catalogued

2011 © Michael A. Wells







Magpie Tales 66

Magpie Tales - 64 Poem: Mother

Mountains I remember.
The rocky earth
not that distant
from our splintered cabin
but there is a dearth
of mother in my memories.

I'm told as a baby
I was held a fixture
in her arms, took from her
breast and was lavished
with attention.


A hushed woman
but one to hold
her place
in the rustic life
she was given
until she vanished
from all but the faint
recall of people.

2011 @ Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 64

Magpie Tales - 62 - Poem: Gemini Sunrise

A Gemini sunrise
medium, split open—
the morning
bread was broken
the day began

 
 

2011 © Michael A. Wells

 
Magpie Tales 62

Magpie Tales 55 - Poem: Untitled

There were sharp points of ambiguity
forked thoughts parting on a less traveled hunch


improvised explosive devices on the kitchen table
landscape of miscellaneous utensils and surgical drop cloths
between salt and pepper and adjacent to some Tupperware
thingy empty with after factory burp     the lid some distance
away from the scene


ruptured pustules perhaps corpuscles maybe a spread
of jam gone array                   smudges and prints
cluttered the site          and fingered a suspect

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales # 54 - Poem: Title Forgotten

Title Forgotten

You are pieces of places
remote in my mind
puzzling and forced

into blank spaces
black holes in time
splintered edges

people of vagueness
foggy names
fuzzy going blank

what was I going to say
what were we talking
about?
 

2011 © Michael A. Wells

 
Magpie Tales

Magpie Tales 53 Poem: SHAKER

SHAKER



Sculpted by subtraction
precise patterns
sliced in the ice
of class Czech glass
cubed mathematically
and crowned with sterling
to set upon a table
to the distraction
of surroundings


2011 © Michael A. Wells



Magpie Tales 53

Magpie Tales 52 - Poem: It looks inviting but it's just a house.

It looks inviting but it's just a house.
Let me tell you about a house-

Past the curtains into the living room
where white upholstered seating
was primarily for company       while free
to come and go-    those were the days
when we were to be seen
cheeks pinched
bragged about in one form
or another but heavens no
add nothing to the conversation.

Upstairs was the safest place,
a room with a bunk bed I shared
with no one.    My trappings were many
and they were my comfort.
In the back was a window I shared
with the world-   an array of bumper stickers
shouting silently my views.
They were not the same as the management.

The kitchen below was by contrast
the most communal of all the rooms.
Around the table the balance of power
seemed most evident and it was there
I felt as though I was a wedge issue
based upon the parenting being done
and by whom the orders were administered.

There were chilly political discussions
back then Nixon was the one
but he really wasn't.    From time to time
there was the "N" word.  It was during these
times, the off color jokes that I felt most
uncomfortable about and not my posture
which was also a hot topic as well
as if I was finishing my dinner- leaving
a clean plate before I could go.
That was a battle I would eventually win.
Time was on my side.  But there were times
as well when my punishment was to stand back
against the kitchen print on the wall and become
one with it... to solve all my posture problems.
It didn't.

The enclosed back porch, the family room
with bar that was never used as such- 
and only in time for the moon landing
did it become home for our TV-
these rooms were cold, but not the kind
of chill that the kitchen had.

The dining room seemed majestic
at the time with built in china cabinets
I learned had been perfect for hiding
newly arrived letters from paternal grandmother
before their destruction.  Beamed ceiling,
natural oak that had been painted
but brought back to life.

The dining room was for formal
meals and entertaining      and fakery.
Playing normal and enjoying mom's
white yeast rolls and butter.

Thinking back these rooms
fan out to form an array
of memories.  Sometimes
it is better their ornamental
view is closed into one ivory stick.

I left the day after graduation.

2011© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 52

Magpie Tales 51 / Poem: Our Strength

Our Strength

Darkness descends

and we are together

tight as mortar and bricks.

A family, snug

we hardly notice the light

foot traffic—

Morning arrives with haste

of duties; so many people

so many places, each of us

feels the pressures of travel,

of heat, of friction

rolling over us

an anxiety— of the grit of life

churned out and spread over us

like we are plowed earth

and seeded discouragement

that it might take hold.

Some of it will root

between us. It will grow

and it may threaten

but tightly grouted

and stronger for our numbers

we will keep our ground.

 
2011 © Michael A. Wells


Magpie Tales 51

Magpie Tales 49 - POEM: A Day Out

A Day Out

A trio of women

blades slung over shoulders,

slug their way to the pond,

their trails in the banks

of quiet white mark

their pilgrimage-

No socks to mend

no laundry, no meals

to be accounted for-

their voices clamoring

escape         they will

upon arrival  -  in

their most unlady-like fashion

cut loose on their secret mirror

under a cloudy sky;

skating, frolicking and acting

like the daughters

they would chastise

for such behavior

on any other day.

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 49



Magpie Tales - 48 / Poem: I Can Imagine

I Can Imagine

Somewhere between the cotton weave

of a sheer web smeared across the flatness

of old sheets of inked notes silent

on pages as brittle as the print is delicate;

and the stuffy air of a concert hall

far off in some other time, I can imagine

the Cantata’s rising echo of voice

on the tail of instrumentation

jostling back and forth 

each fighting for their due

recognition— the orchestra

in a winning moment heeds

the directors baton— going allegro.

Voices bow to strings and horns

until a disquieting roll of timpani ushers in 

one final melding of chorus and instruments.



2011 © - Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 48

Magpie Tales 47 - Poem: Deranged

Deranged

The drip a mystery,

the puddle, rust flavored;

the drain too far away.

A contorted idea-

a trick knob,

the mirror of a sick mind.

2111 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 47