Author: Michael Angelo

  • You, the Good Morning

    You, the Good Morning

    I want you to know
    that this life of yours
    is the sunshine shimmer
    on a pond’s surface.

    You may not feel this,
    you may be overwhelmed
    by guns firing inside your head,
    but believe me

    you really are
    the morning and mist
    on leaves.

    When you open your eyes, you begin
    the World.

    You are born every day,
    and every day
    you are found mixed within particles of earth:

    cool grasses of evenings
    soft and curled underfoot,
    seasons praying
    in every natural tongue and tone,
    snowflakes alight with firestorm passions
    sacrificing themselves for a flower’s growth.

    Yes, I know
    the demands of the day seem not to end,
    that debts continue to grow fatter and more deformed,
    that friendships lose their color and grow old,
    and that loneliness sometimes creeps in
    at festivals, on roads, in waters,
    above cities, within
    quiet along the ledge
    of the limits of your pain,

    but please, do not ignore the simple truth sprouted:

    the body that is your mind that is your World.

    Always remember that you are rooted
    deep within the womb
    of time and space and matter and breath.

    Do not ignore the rising of your chest
    as you stretch the branches of your arms beyond
    the rippling blue blanket that drapes
    dreams and hopes,
    songs and prayers,
    in the miracle of sky.

    Between your fingers,
    those gentle twigs,
    beams

    the sun
    of the Individual.

    It wakes after the night
    breaks

    and falls.

         Do you hear that?
         A baby’s first cry,
         the first ripple in the pond.

  • Disharmony

    Disharmony

    I don’t know what is colder,
    the winter shards of wind piercing through my window
    or the acute awareness of ingratitude within myself.
    Bizarre how life daily strips the things one loves,
    and yet the lesson is never learned.
    The old fisherman that breaks his line and loses his fish
    complains about the mango back home.
    The sweat of summertime is overwhelming,
    yet here I am, lamenting the cold.

  • Never Promises

    Never Promises

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  • Alcohol

    Alcohol

    I write to cope with the world,

    like how a drinker drinks to life.

    I wet my whistle on the fountain pen,

    diving deep into the bottle of my mind.

    I hide there surrounded by my own darkness,

    part of which is gunk picked up from time.

    Ever seen spat-out gum on a street?

    After a while it becomes a black blotch;

    afterwards it’s just part of the scene,

    along with homelessness

    and people consumed by broken dreams.

    Well, that’s all inside of me,

    blended with the misspellings

    and grammatical issues of my birth;

    I can’t handle it all without spilling

    my drink along the page.