Moon by Cory Taylor

The moon,

Dusty white and full of possibilities.

It serves as a worldly connector.

Never changing.

Its light dances on waves.

It shines on spotlights on midnight strolls.

Rocks and craters cover the surface;

Promises for the future embody the core.

As epithet to the meaning of love.

Perpetual and sweet.

The moon

sings a song known by all.

My Infinite Promises by Annie Rossow

When life has got you nailed to the ground,
You have someone you can wrap your arms around
When life pierces you and steals your hope,
I'll be here to hold you while you cope

When life steals and takes everything away,
I'll fight for you and keep monsters at bay.
When life knocks you down over and takes your breath,
You have someone there when nothing is left.

When life leaves you feeling empty and weak,
I'll be here when times are hopeless and bleak.
When life takes and takes, giving nothing in return,
I'll walk with you through fires and heal their burn.

The House That Forgot Us by Frances E. FitzGerald

The house we moved out

of in 1964

doesn’t remember

us. It doesn’t remember the wallpaper in the dining

room, the stove sitting where the fridge

used to be, the downstairs bathroom

tub where Aunt Betty dunked me

after I screamed my

defiance at getting the

shampoo rinsed out of

my hair.

The pantry doesn’t remember when

I cornered Mom one

December, demanding, Is there a

Santa Claus? and not hearing

what I wanted

to hear: Of

course there’s a Santa

Claus, no matter

what your sisters

tell you.

The house doesn’t

remember the ratty

beige carpet downstairs

where we built our

doll town, or the trays

and chemicals Dad used as he

developed his photos in the downstairs

bedroom. It doesn’t

remember the overstuffed

chair (on the front-porch side of the

living room) that

Teresa and I squeezed in

together.

The upstairs hallway doesn’t

remember Mom and Bill and I pulling

nails out of the carpet in

November of 1963, then hearing on

the radio that John F.

Kennedy was shot. Mom

 made us say Hail Marys. The

house doesn’t

remember our Hail Marys.

We remember

the house in our every pore. But

 now its green siding is

off, and gleaming, naked wood

floors breathe freely again, and

walls are vibrant blues and

pale yellows. It is as though

we never lived

there, even though our

old house has never

moved out of us.

In My Michigan (The unofficial song of the Great State of Michigan) by Chris Migliore

  

In Michigan, My Michigan,

There’s Great Lakes and forest trees,

The robin sets down to rest.

Among the beauty is white pine,

Their glory Spring of life,

The sun melts through them all.

Between Isle Royale and Petoskey,

The brook trout, brings us new life

The apple blossoms bloom down below.

If you seek a peasant place,

If you seek a pleasant place,

Look, look, look… about you.

This poem is a song written in 2007 to honor the great state of Michigan. Though I appreciate our current unofficial song Michigan My Michigan, I wanted to write a more pleasurable song.

Copyright 2007 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

No Fear by Chris Migliore

Once upon a time—

In a house, so long ago…

             On a cold wintry night-- When all was drear.

                 There was joy, laughter, Love,

                             … and no fear,

       for my Mother—

     was there—

   for me.

  She prepared the food,

                                            For all to enjoy.

              All the trimmings to make it a special time.

                                            Out of this came memories of love for us all...

                              The memories to last the life through.

The music was played,

                                           We talked of old…

            The relatives came from long far way.

                                                   They enjoyed my mother’s

                             Warmth and care.

     They left,

     Feeling

    No fear.

It seems that’s long ago, But not more than an hour.

The warmth I feel will last a whole life through.

Once upon a time—

In a house, I imagine near…

             On a spring-like day—Now all seems bright!

                 There is joy, laughter, Love,

                             … and no fear,

       for my Mother—

     is there—

   for me!

     C.J.P.M.

This poem was started the week I returned to St. Scholastica School after my mother’s death in the Winter, 1999. As I was thinking in the car on the way to school, I jotted down some words of what my mother meant to me over the years. When I arrived at school, I sat down at my computer and finished it off.

Copyright 2007 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

O Lady by Chris Migliore

O Lady

O lady

How has your Grace

been lost?

America tears

In your presence.

The weary are lost

In bondage under freedom.

For joy it once felt,

Is held bound

By greed and power.

In America,

The dignity and hope in ecstasy,

Sought by our ancestors,

Has faded,

Faded into desperate cries

For her descendents.

Graceful Lady of our nation,

Your face saddens

At our complacent fate.

Of faceless

Thoughtless powers,

Who disrupt our ways.

For those who slice up

Our forefather’s intentions,

Lawlessly into pieces.

They would not recognize

Our Lady’s thoughtful prayer.

Your beauty,

Body and Heart,

Has been regenerated now.

Restored is your Grace and dignity?

May this be an example of renewed hope

That all may again be granted

Hope for a better life,

An exciting tomorrow

AND,

Every tomorrow of our lives.

To my first visit to New York City Thursday July 28, 1991. To this statue and the restoration of her body and soul, I dedicated this poem.

Copyright 2007 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

Aegen, Aegen by Chris Migliore

Aagen, Aagen,

Has a reason-

Two heads are better than one.

Keep one in light you see,

In frontal unity,

To keep hidden all chaos.

But, for the another you see,

Has seen “hardly any light.”

Carefully hidden away

Until that desperate and hounding hour.

As Aagen keeps it hidden-

It’s deep like the sea

On one stormy night or more.

As morning’s stormy serenity can build into chaos again.

So does Aagen and his two heads.

And, so we see his other “dawn’s early light”

Now, Aagen brings chaos-

Not just for another perilous day,

And not just beyond tomorrow,

But one that will dismally shine perpetually for years.

Written in 1984, in response to President Reagan and his  way of switching sides so quickly on any issue, very much as playing a part, like he use to do in the movies. He would show the bad truth only when he was totally out of untruths.

Copyright 2007 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

Remember the Unicorn by Brooke Fox

A tree cut down for Christmas,

From whence a child once cried,

“Daddy, I want that one!”

The father, “Timber!” cried.

“Hush my lamb, we’ll put it in the corner,

So it may shine its light,

On all of those who cut it down

And there will be a sight.”

And in the night, silenced to the children,

Decorations in their right,

They howled their injustice,

Against this horrid plight.

Said they, “We will not live this life

This thirsty cup of vapor.”

Said they, “We want some water,

For ‘tis life’s wondrous giver.”

And lo an angel, sitting nigh awoke,

Upon them she looked down,

Said gently, “I think I have an answer,

life’s refurbished whence it drowned.

“Scrumptious canes of candy,

White and silver will I paint you,

Into a feast for the eye’s longings,

Rekindled traits of pleasure.

“On my creature, lovely tinsel,

Will I mold you together surely,

Rearrange your initial painting,

Into one purposeful and inspiring.

“You, yon gingerbread men,

Who pine for another chance,

You will have a united body,

A life eye pleasing and not sustenance.

“Poor orbs that are long forgotten,

Who look on the world a dither,

You will no longer see in meekness,

heart and soul of my greatest efforts.

“For the little ones not mentioned,

Here will you stay gladly,

For you are not wronged by those who love you,

But molded gently by a child’s teasings.”

These sayings being finished,

Those who were signaled arose,

Unbeknownst by those who had used them,

Transformed by an angel’s prose.

Twisted horn bereft of red,

Silver trickles now haughty mane,

A body of life and not a mere giver,

Eyes that once looked upon ghostly plane.

Glancing out her window,

A small girl cried in delight,

And rather, "Daddy, I want that one!”

It was a cry completely divine.

For a unicorn is of the purest creatures,

So magical many souls cannot tell,

The new life it will give a child,

Regenerator of death whispers unfurled.

The unicorn, the world’s great treasure, should never go unnoticed,

For its goblet is always full of life so thus,

Remember the unicorn.

Winter by Brooke Fox

When Winter visits,

in encompassing beauty,

of white adorned clothing,

she plays a role for which we hanker,

of warmth and intrepid buoyancy.

Eyes the hue of blue-dipped crystals,

skin like a river of pearl,

these characteristics extend their colors,

from sky to snow-banked landscape.

Magnificent the seed she buries,

with a silence loud and captivating,

into rays of class and assured confidence,

working to the tune of subtlety. 

Though Winter shows an epic sight,

and in day she o’erpowers sundry,

in night she mystery portrays-

an awe-evoking, sleeping, austere queen.

Set aside her inspiration,

Winter’s heart speaks golden,

for yon a boy ragged and dirty,

sits playing a song of joyful elation.

Beside the Maker walks Icy-Martyr,

expert in changing tears into laughter,

engaged as children lounge by the fire,

touched by the aura of mystical tremor.

When Winter visits,

her spirit on magic hangs,

when she leaves,

the hanger goes with her.

For woe be the day when we lose our excitement-

without an audience, Winter is only a season.

~ Dedicated to my aunt, Saundra Kay Sitto

Magic of the Stars by Annie Rossow

I look up to the darkened skies
The glow of the stars reflect in my eyes
They rush to me in anxious greeting
Time is counted ‘til our next meeting

Stars cast magic to help me fly
They raise me with them up so high
They swirl and shine in great delight
We play and color the dark night

They flank me as we race through air
The stars gleam with the ties we share
They think of me as the bright sun
Our dances have only just begun

Our journey is one taken in trust
We take flight and sprinkle star dust
We fly and soar until sunrise
‘Til then, we shall play in night skies
 

Far Away by Chris Migliore

There is a place we go,

Amid here, and a place afar.

For timeless thoughts laze to go.

A fantasy.

Whites around, fight to save,

And for us, familiar sounds— ground  our next move...

Afar----

An elegant cathedral peers out, which graces the snow-scaped land,

Awaits.

Though for now receptive, a seemingly forever nulls…

There is a place beyond to go, way far from here.

Stars look bright,

Sounds, anewed, and feared for a while, become embraced,

And velocity strengthens to a narrow beam.

There is a place we go,

Where whites, purity, fight to save.

Thou lordly face is surely seen above;

It loads us unto a mansionly staircase,

Spiraling to the place…

Where lilies, lost effervescent perfume

Are Cathedral’s grace.

Air is light,

Weightlessness all about.

Violin and flute are heard afar—

Then dreams, it is not—

But then maybe,

For all eternity to come.

Awaken!

There is a place we go,

Between here and where

Thoughts do fantasize.

Though for now—

Soon forever!

Written in about 1984.  It is a poem, depicting pictorially, my ongoing fascination about what’s on my mind, beyond death.

Copyright 2007 @ Chris J.P. Migliore

Crystal Blue and Crimson by Meggan Jacobsen

                                                                                                                      
Upon which eternity my eyes did fall                                                                                      
into the Crystal Blue intensity he keeps?
The sentinel perched in the minds of men
when detected, his ambiance, wholly fled me.
Fortify! The ramparts, blessed protectors of virtue.
Against entrance and ruin they hold firm.
However, solitude is irrecoverable.
A thorn on a Rose shields
Yet Blood it spills
Blood from the slender fingers of young virgins
Plucking for their intended
Blood from the calloused thumbs of the lads
Who pluck for the virgins.

The Rose for all its intentions
is plucked anyway.

That Rose in which eternity did he give?
Crimson, he said, like the blush resting daintily on your cheeks.
Two stains of Blood I thought instead.
The thorn will he be and from me draw forth liquid Crimson life-
hot and pulsing through my steams?

I am the Rose now.
Majestic in offertory and boring in tradition 
The prize behind the wall.
To attain the price is steep,
A formidable endeavor for any.
A Crimson Rose? 
So simple a consolation?
How can any man be satisfied with so little as this?
Pray, enlighten me- for I know not.
Who will he be?
Incomparable in language I think.
When will he come—
when the last Rose is plucked?
How will he arrive—
so I may keep my watch?
I dare not hope a splendid manner
Secretive more befits my luck
Surely disappointment I recognize enough.
For what do I comprehend but speculation?
All I know is that shade of Crystal Blue.

Fire by Brooke Fox

        Fire

By Brooke Fox

 Your eyes are like a spark,

                              a flame when it reaches the wind.

                       The trees are tall yet stand proudly beautiful,

                                             but that one flame

                                        devours them in an instant.

      I tell you I see clearly,

           your face

        close to my heart.

                                    And when I think of those trees,

        burning steadily,

    I say “Go down, Moses,”

                             for I know that in the wake of that fire that was spark,

         of peace that is no longer there,

            all the forest by that flame, the trees that surround it,

                                  will soon be “Gone With the Wind.”

                                       Your love arises before me,

 and I see a burning flame.

         At your touch,

                                             a spark that meets the wind.

                                         Love conquers everything,

                                            and in the wake of it,

                                    your fire will be forever burning.

      Remember the fire,

       For it embraces you.

                                           Fire, burning fire of love.

                Fire.

-Dedicated to my mother, Ellie Fox (poem written for mother’s day)

Monster by Meggan Jacobsen

It takes you by surprise
whispers to you, dims the lights
It’s sweet advance and holding eyes,
your first trip to lovers’ paradise

but love is dangerous because
it goes away, and when it does
It comes out, to torture you
to take its fill
to rip… subdue

Inside of me—It wants my soul
me at my worst—It tears a hole
Addicted, waiting
my blood sings
for when you stop the pain it brings--

'cause I messed it up, could not let go...
of my heart
too late… I know   

Caught with these walls
I can’t begin
won’t give it up
won’t let It win

A fatal attraction
a bloodless coup,
every time I think of you.
Can’t run away
It never sleeps
It lives to hunt,
to make me weep.

Yet, inside of me—you touch my soul
me at my best—complete and whole
Addicted, waiting
my blood sings
to feel the pain that love can bring.

Whiskers by Frances E. FitzGerald

Father Ron has grown a fine beard

One day, it simply appeared

It’s pointy and grey 

It’s a little bit fey

                                  But it isn’t too terribly weird.

Writing from the Gut by Fr. Ron DeRosiers

A writing instructor named Frances

Was wise and knew all the right answers.

I asked her a question

About indigestion.

She said, “When you eat, please take no chances!”

Maiden Literary Voyage by Ben Drafta

This poem is my inaugural

You can tell I have no flair.

None of this comes natural

For eloquent writers are rare.

A master’s work has cadence

Oh, I wish I had Shakespeare’s gift.

But for now, please have patience

And catch me if I start to drift.

I’ll pursue my literary quest

In search of inspiration.

Of my writings, I hope the rest

Are better than this oration.

Maybe someday I’ll write something deft

As of now, I write so bad it’s left!