Awaiting The Inevitable
“Awaiting the inevitable
weighed down
by an anchor of pain”
sounds so profound
when startled awake
by a stab in the ribs
from nothing more or less
than a crude feeling
that takes advantage
of your compulsion to create
only the purest most concrete
images the sharpest
refinement of words
even though all
you really want to do
is explore the crevasses
into which we fall –
no, into which you fall –
during those searches
for the ultimate passage
through the steel veil
between your rasping tongue
and that solid ground
you know know know
is there
On Walking Freyja on a Snowless New Year’s Morn
Amid the cryptic silence deleted
by the ghost roar of a lost chariot
(sorry, Freyja, no cats pulling this one),
I hold the leash taut as the goddess zig-
zags between scents she alone can suss out.
Perhaps to prove their reality, she squats
and unhesitant releases a measured squirt
from what seems an endless supply of spray.
Then bounces forward to scatter bits of grass
as if seeking to mask any traces
of herself that she wouldn’t want others
to identify. Could be the failed wolf
within taking center stage, visible
only through the spirit gleam in her eyes,
as if overlooking a field seeded
with the bones of freshly-slain warriors.
Like it does just before she leaps skyward
to nip at an arm or a leg. Like it
does in the guttural howl that loosens
whatever compacts exist between hu-man
and cold-eyed deity disguised as pet.
But we’re simply on a walk right now
on a snowless winter morning, the air
doing its mighty best to dampen
the festive mood that may have built up
with one sad year sliding into the next.
So no need to leap or howl. No need
to nip. Just keeping nose to frosty ground
in the never-ending circular search for
the perfect odour that might compensate
for all the impurities strewn along
the path. And as we turn the first corner
in what becomes a square back to the place
of origin (house of the fallen), the thought
comes that this might well be my first dog poem
that doesn’t feature the word “death”. Or, at least,
was.
Relation Ships
[Asking for a friend]
So what exactly is a relationship?
Is it a ship for two (or a few)
carrying you out into an ocean
that lacks horizons? Just bobbing along
with a heart full of song. [Let us stop there
to curtail any extended metaphor.]
Does it entail worship, hero or other-
wise? Aristocratic emotions
that lift you beyond the ordinary?
Allow the peasants to rise above the muck?
Friendship? Hardship? Ion-ship positive
Free-flowing current? Reserved for the hip?
For those who shoot from the lip unthinking?
And relations—can they join in the fun?
Be part of the definition? I’m guessing
why not? [As long as you can keep it
above the first cousin threshold]. How about
age gaps and such? Is there a cut-off point
when pierced by time’s arrow that says: Stop here
or risk a lonely upper end to things?
A withering display of bony crags?
Better yet: can forever tolerate
such bonding? Or does Tithonus await
to “wither slowly in thine arms”?
Can elation ever be more than spur
[spurt] of the moment? A gush and a flush?
Can it last past the part with the fireworks?
And to get back to the non-extended
metaphor [ship-ocean]: Any idea
what that sinking feeling is all about?
[Asked for a friend]
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
reminds me of all the information
we lose as we move along those waves
we create that do very little to bend
time and space but make us feel like we’re there
right where the action is – or would be.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
brings to mind an emergency room baby
next to a vomiting centenarian.
neither as disturbing as the man
in a wheelchair with ear glued to cell phone.
Puzzling over the fate of black holes
relieves me of the duty to concern myself
with the meaning of life and instead
concentrate on learning monty python
skits by heart, the ins and outs of occasional
poetry, and why and why not gravel paths.
At A Distance
I don’t know about you (really, I don’t)
but do you, some mornings, rise from bed
and see the world as cardboard, flattened
and without depth? Do you sit at the breakfast
table across from your partner and feel
you’re looking at a TV monitor?
Do you get the urge to look behind
the person to whom you’re talking to make sure
it’s not just a foam cutout held upright
by a flat pad into which the feet
have been inserted? When walking on the street,
are you forced to fight your way through layer
upon layer of what resemble strings
or see-through curtains lowered in your path
at random intervals? And which vanish
the moment you turn back? Does the paper …
No, strike that. Does the computer screen
upon which you’re typing this poem
exude more reality than the limbs
of trees desperate to get your attention
by slamming against just-in-time window panes?
Do you undergo a melting sensation
(apologies to the film-thin wicked witch
for having appropriated that image)
every time you strive to pin something down?
Does the half-profile of the man on the moon
smile at you while trying to steal your shadow?
Are you afraid that the next time you blink
it will all disappear? And you will be left
without even a tiny pebble on which
to stand?
MICHAEL MIROLLA - The author of more than two dozen novels, plays, film scripts and short story and poetry collections, MICHAEL MIROLLA’s publications include a novella, The Last News Vendor, winner of the 2020 Hamilton Literary Award, as well as three Bressani Prizes: the novel Berlin; the poetry collection The House on 14th Avenue; and the short story collection Lessons in Relationship Dyads. His latest poetry collection, At the End of the World, was short-listed for the 2022 Hamilton Literary Award and took second prize for the Di Cicco Poetry Award. In the fall of 2019, Michael served a three-month writers residency at the Historic Joy Kogawa House in Vancouver. A symposium on Michael’s writing was held in Toronto on May 25, 2023. In September of 2023, Michael took part in a writers residency in Olot, Catalonia. While there, he polished a novella, How About This …?, which is scheduled for publication in September 2025. In July 2024, Michael participated in a month-long writers residency in Barcelona. From September 2024-June 2025, Michael is the WIR for the Regina Public Library. Born in Italy and growing up in Montreal, Michael now makes his home outside the town of Gananoque in the Thousand Islands area of Ontario.
Website: https://www.michaelmirolla.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Michael.Mirolla
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/474595.Michael_Mirolla
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