The Mag #259 It's A Clown Thing

I will not be swallowed by your rotund
laughter. Nor pierced by your carnival
eyes.  No, what I would do is to reach,
into your face in that way you disrespect
my personal space, and with much malice
squeeze that bogus red nose of yours.

Who was it that first decided for us
that clowns and children go together?
Is there a requirement by The International
Clown Workers Union that their painted faces
must incorporate a systemic sociopathic
flat affect to go with their smile?

Never reassuring, never comical.
If it were not for such faces, we might
find your big blue feet funny.  We might
laugh at your baggy clothing. But no,
your face freaks us out - it's so obvious.
It's the first thing we see, and all I want
to do, is honk your nose and run.


Michael Allyn Wells


The Mag

Mag 248: Their Union

Bond of Union - 1956 - M.C. Escher

It seems hard to acclimate themselves.

Each questioning their bearings. 

Each unwinding their individuality.

Each individual struggling to be themselves.

By their union they have unwrapped  

a bit of who they were and have become

yet a third person--

She feels her ball bearings free

and He, his. They seem lost 

and at the same time found.

Sometimes they feel they have left behind

a simpler time. A time when their thoughts

and feelings traveled within a tighter orbit.

It was different then. Not to say it was better.

Not to say it was worse. Just less complex.  

The Mag 248

Michael Allyn Wells

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

The Mag 247

Magpie 233: Leaving

Yell Sound, Shetland, 2014, by R.A.D. Stainforth

Overhead the sky is an accordion
as we make way on gentle waves
like a slow dance sashaying
side to side and watch the shoreline
grow thinner like it is starving
for our return...




Michael Allyn Wells

Magpie Tales

MAG 208: Poet's Sleep

Poet's Sleep, 1989, Chang Houg Ahn

And day, nights it's all the same. 

The head falls still on a book or pillow-

the light or dark is turned inside out 

no longer having dominion-   

time is translucent and meaningless

here as images connect sentences

and bring story past or future into

a slice of originality-

the collision of mater,

the combustion of energy,

the flight of notion,

the confabulatory narrative;

which every poet knows to value

above the hype we wrap

in conclusion of reality.

From the red crinkled birthing center

one after one childlike thoughts slide 

out of the head and if the waking poet 

is quick to his pen, he may catch a few

and those that are not lost forever

become fodder for readers. 

Michael Allyn Wells

Mag 208

MAG 205 - O Beautiful Ache

Nails to ivory—
phalanges pushing
upward to balance
she stretches
her legs apart
teetering on freedoms wings.

Toes roll
across keys
some black
most white.

Tendons feel the strain
ligaments the refrain
muscles move to the sound
of pings—

not a song you’d recognize
but the impromptu
of happiness flowing—

stretched toes
move key to key
some black
most white.

Her feet have never
ached so beautifully
before.




Michael Allyn Wells


Mag 205

The Mag 204: Winter Comes to the Old Mill

The Mill - 1964 - Andrew Wyeth

The old Mill is lost

in my snow blindness

eyes watering 

from the cold

looking through the wetness

the blur is magnified 

by the power of headache

that splits my forehead

my skin curls from the cold

and once inside my arms reveal

a pattern of raindrop goose bumps 

up and down the extremity of epidermis 

exposed

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 204

MAG 203: Arise

Musician in the Rain by Robert Doisneau

Melancholy skies smear this day

to dampen plans—

The human spirit resilient 

as it is, goes on.

Traveling about, final brush strokes

to canvass, standing under an umbrella.

There is music to be made, 

the day gets no sympathy from the symphony.

There are glum mouths to be raised 

like recovering sunken ships.

The spirits will rise

it is the arts that awaken us;

it is humanity

at it's beast.

Michael Allyn Wells

Mag 203

The Mag 201 The Ebb of Nightlife

New York At Night -Vivienne Gucwa

The magenta of day

now sullied by mist and streetlight.

The streets fill like a drawn bath.

Clubs and restaurants swell

in song and dance as sponges  

soaking in the crowds;

to be spit out by two a.m.

and the streets drained. 

  

 Michael A. Wells

The Mag 201

The Mag 197: Aerial

From The Guardian, Eyewitness

Aerial

Copious triumph overhead
the conquest of sky by sea gulls

who blend into the blue gray skies
and abruptly are everywhere.

A sneak attack on the beach head.
A monumental event – bombarding

the shoreline with an ugly grace.
Only God could engineer aerodynamics

on such a gangling bird. Feathered wings
on a lunchbox.


Michael Allyn Wells


The Mag 197

The Mag 194

The Letter

The nights are cold without you.
The days much too long.

Distance is measured
by lustful thoughts-
I cannot help.

I send this not to guilt you
but because my lips can reach you
no other way.

I have sealed the envelope
with the dampness of my tongue in hope-
and the stamp a breath & kiss.



Michael A. Wells


The Mag 194

The Mag 193

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas

 The Ballerina's Private Warm Up

She feels the constriction 

of a cocoon and the solitude- 

therein lies the crystalline craving 

to spin herself free.

A twirl to unwind- to whip-up

the motion to unclog the black and white

all around her-  she wishes for wind

she wishes for a spin-off of gale force

to extricate her from this morose.

She rises on her toes - shaky first

then in a solid stance her arms rise 

overhead with poise a momentary pause.

There is no music, except that alone

in her head- the composition

comes with spontaneity 

Is a powerful turn 

she thrusts herself into a running leap,

long legs scissor in defiance of gravity

then another, and a third

with a solid land- quickly

rising again to a pointe

she spins again 

shaking free of the grayness

her heart pounding

her chest heaves 

as she drops down

arms collapse to the floor

head bowing supplication...

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 193

  

The Mag 192

Resurrection Reunion 2 - Sir Stanley Spencer

Resurrection Dance

They shake out bugs

the webs

the claustrophobia

the ground  above

has opened

dark loam scattered

among sharp green blades

They link hands

rediscovering touch

 kick up their heels

circle and shout
they are all out!



Michael A. Wells


The Mag

The Mag 191

le Jardin, 1962, by Max Ernst 

Cartographers Woman

He is one given to meticulous detail,

appreciates boundaries, and topography.

He has an eye for cityscapes, rolling hills-

the arches and clefts.

He sees beauty in the world

where others see the mundane.

Everywhere the lines and curves 

converge for him and they come to life.

A rivers path carved out of the land

over time reveals swaying hips. 

In rolling hills he sees the waves of hair

falling over shoulders and too the fullness

of breasts and the cleavage that runs between

the rounded tops that softens out into the larger plains.

In the contours of it all he sees her face, 

her long white legs and feels her every bit alive.

He believes he is the luckiest man for he sees

his woman is everywhere. 

Michael A. Wells

The Mag

MAG 190

Dog by scavangercat808

 

 

My Parallel Universe

another world out there

framed in my view— 

a world of ruckus

fast moving cars

I can chase

only in my imagination 

a postman strolls unflinched

oblivious to my bark

 

children chasing balls

will pass and give a nod

hey you they offer

no hand to pat my head 

there are noises

I can’t even identify

people   cats   birds

smells the permeate

my universe 

I know these things exist

all beyond my reach



Michael A. Wells


The Mag





The Mag 189

 

Photo credit crilleb50

 

 

RUMINATION

 

The ticking-

the constant ever after ticking.

I sit for this

I sit for that

it weighs one the mind

it bends at the heart

 

of it all, I see no reason

I hear no rhyme.

I do not cherish this passage

of time-

 

after which I know nothing of.

The grass it grows

and flowers and blooms

and goes to seed-

My knees ache

 

all the while I ruminate;

then conjugate things

of despair-

 

things I remember

that brought me here-

those that were painful

and some that were dear.

 

this ticking continues

I suppose that is good-

it's all quite foggy now

like I knew would.  

 

 

 

Michael A. Wells

 

 

 

 The Mag

 





The Mag 178: Moon on the Horizen

 

Andrew Wyeth - The Man and the Moon - 1990

 

 



When the land spreads out against the horizon
no man made obstacles to block the view
the moonrise breaks over natural terrain
is a sight to behold

And summer nights when the air is split apart
by the resistance of your bike on the road
your veins are rush with blood
as your body grows goose bumps

Not another soul in sight and the only sound
aside from the song of nature is the putt-putt
of your engine as you throttle down to a stop
dismount the bike and stand stark still

Facing the rising night light
in silent homage and obedience
to the calling stars
even a grown man cries



Michael A. Wells

The Mag

The Mag - 172 / Walled Memories

Charleston Farmhouse Door

It could have been inviting.

An assemblage of colors

whose meaning is subject 

to ones interpretation.

I fancied a room, a child's room.

A room from long ago, 

whose inhabitant unseen

for one reason or another

for numerous years

while a proxy kept

watch over it and for

the return of the child 

grown.

But the lock withdrew

any invitation to the room.

A room unchanged

perhaps dusted pristine.

Perhaps too painful

the memories-

to be reconstructed;

too painful to forget.

Michael A. Wells (c) 2013

The Mag

The Mag -171 / We Have Never Known

Morris Graves - Walking, Walking, Singing in the Next Dimension? 1979

Eyes pressured by destinations beyond. 

Walking, walking, singing, chewing gum...

flight becomes the norm. Man becomes bird,

becomes one with air, the sky, and the heavens.

The mind in circles

spirals off to new heights

now we are the hawks

we are the song birds

we are the doves...

We calculate 

we praise

we seek a peace doesn't exist

but we know it is out there.

We have always been evolving,

becoming...

We have never known 

what we will be tomorrow. 

Michael A. Wells (c) 2013 

The Mag

The Mag 159: The Cycle

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall

Listen to the power.

A clean white foam pushed

from behind by a blue-green hand

then pulled back.

The sand wet,

beach reticent briefly-

then the flapping 

and laughing of disquieted Seagulls

in the distance; then closer

until deafening.  

As the white foam reappears

the gulls circle out to sea

watching, awaiting 

the powerful wall of water 

once again push in 

and take back.

In mocking fashion 

the birds do it all over. 

 

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 159