to know this is to know love


every lovely flower ever bloomed
has faded/will fade away and die
every little Dick and Jane
every little Spot and Felix
every little word i write…

but tonight
it is May Day Eve
May poles are set in the garden with care
streaming colors every where
light hearted call
call of the light
it’s two thousand eleven
of course the boys may join in

every thing has a question
many questions have no answer
(or we have not found it yet)

we were the seed we were the seed
that grew the plants
that blossomed the flowers
some will be special to little children
some will make old folks swoon
young ladies will find them fine fine fine
to give flowers to young men

and i will give in to my sleep head
with the dream i once again
will find a flower to dance around
the May Pole in the morning
hoping i’ll see you there.

The Easter Lily That Came Early


one could stop and smell Lily too
unlike the rose, but akin.

the blinding scream of children
“Will you harbor me?”

dead trees line up crisscross across
sandy desert floor down whiskey creek
shadows growing longer
footprints ever-which-way
little children still playing
middle teens still swaying
twenties thinking
suicide? or box themselves away?
Christina Green
Daniel rowed his boat ashore
Amy Good Man reports
still they listen still they pray
some fasting many days away

and what do you fast for brother & sister?
and do you do it in public
for self aggrandizement
or for the children

heart on the floor will you join me
one moment
pickup whomsoever needs it?

be sure to smell Easter Lily when she comes
’round the mountain when she comes
should she arrive too late or never
remember the smell
breathe in breathe out…
there she is!

LIFE IN WHITE by Michael W. Eliseuson


I have seen alligators,
And I have seen a water moccasin,
Floating in the canal like a long black stick,
With a sharp bend on one end.

I have seen the sun rise,
And set,
And rise again,
But it does neither of those,
The earth just turns,
And turns,
And turns.

Of myself,
I have seen little,
For the months have emptied me,
And filled me up again,
With fireflies and turtles,
Hawks and deer and otters.

I have been emptied and filled,
And I am the canal waters,
Deep and still,
Green and rippled,
Or flat calm as a mirror,
Even beseechingly.

Indian Rudy,
Teaches me without teaching,
Rich teaches me without trying,
Rob teaches me by saying nothing,
Just shakes my hand over and over,
And stares away at things I cannot see.

I am the new one,
In this old land,
Palmed and vined,
Pined and prickled,
Made strong by sand,
Made slow by basking turtles,
Made grateful by cool breezes,
On blazing hot sopping days.

Made well by constant simple fare,
Mostly vegetables and fruits,
Bread and water,
The staples of camp life,
I leave sadly in a fortnight,
Gladly knowing I will return,

No Poemba Today by Michael W. Eliseuson

No poemba today,
Not even a hint of poembesia,
Just a tattered flake or two,
Of poemia sifting down,
On my purloined head,
Leaves no poesia,
On my sweated brow!

When I was young,
I poemed often,
Lifted great ores of it,
In my rock bottom boat,
And laughed all waves away,
Cheered the thunder and the wind,
Threw anchors out,
And stayed lifetimes,
Swimming around the boat,
In search of sharks,
To eat my boiling mind!

When I became older,
Poeming grew like manhole covers,
Rolled South then North,
Rolled restlessly,
Noisey as hell,
Bad poems all!

Now the old man rests,
Breathes poetry,
Exhales words of writ,
Finds honest labor,
In the craft,
Finds wisdom in the life,
Which yet blooms,
To teach me!

Like fireflies in bright spangles of wood,
I trace their passage,
In the darkeries of both forest and time,
And still I wonder,
Which be mine?