rained heavy on the forlorn
white stone

April dusk had stood still
on deserted lane

iron gate to the lawn
showed mossed sleepy graves

tiptoed on the overgrown grass
for epitaph hard to read

Expect great things from God
opened eyes to more widely catch

Attempt great things for God
couldn't ruin it the ravage of years

outside tombstone waited a world
in the drizzle echoed the missionary's deathless sermon.

Oceans unexplored
And planets undiscovered
Lie within her eyes

wafted aimlessly
'neath the steamy scorch
   of summer's indecency,
as a winter's heart of
   condemnation, set adrift
     midst snowflake fire

with each word
the hands wind down
with each letter
the second hand clicks over
moving inexhorably toward my
demise

each exclam and period
punctuate the fact that i am
indeed
dying

every comma digs my grave


ah! but when i go
i shall die a poet's death
i will write about it
every syllable

and i will not be
a light bulb that just sparks out

I WILL BE AS A STAR GOING NOVA*


SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
(c) 6/11/2015

I've dropped this Cubica today,
as often as I've dropped my heart
when I pick up the two pieces of
a broken pen, ***** them back together,
it still works
filling my lungs with vaporous poison
knowing it will eventually **** me,
I pit it against my lips and **** on it
like a straw till it blows sunshine
out of my *ss,
just what he would call a magnifying glass,
of  perspective poetry,
inhalant on course
defying destiny.
Hopefully,
seventy playgirl virgins
will soothe
that remorse,
at the very least a sepharad
of simpatico
with silly  smoking mortals
still whispering of genius.

In this hollow space
I hold before the rising sun
In duty the greys will fade
as the sky shifts into it's run
I hold the hallowed word
and embrace it's lifeless eyes
Looking for a pulse
but there is none in it's disguise

Before the song comes tolled
by the early morning bird
The poet twists agony
seeking out a perfect word
The hollow echo of love's dust
is knocking at the door
Your hearts a cenotaph screaming out
Please ! Let there be no more !

The sun's rising red as an
evil eye of dread
Cold sweat is dripping now
from the brow of you head
The night's effort lies
at the bottom of the pool
All of your creations
make you look just like a fool

Now the rays of light
penetrate my aching head
This hollow empty feeling
compares to being dead
I toss my papers
halfway  across the room
The all but hallowed
are replaced now by the gloom

Every night tastes cold coffee
leaves you feeling grim
The half eaten papers
where the ink has run on thin
My emotions have all turned to lead
it's my time to go to bed
The midnight's voice is screaming
like a nightmare that hasn't been fed

~Christi Michaels~MoonFlower~Fluer de Luna~
          
Today is my 58th Birthday!
Just now finding firm, resolute
footing here in this magical yet
ever changing world of ours.
As I take stock of my wealth of Blessings, Hello Poetry has been a heart changing event for me this last year.

You all have enriched my world. Accepted my words, my heart,
my hurts, my visions, in such a
kind and loving manner. My pen
pals around the world, we get to
share our inner thoughts, feelings in poetic form!  Such a precious way to bond. How fantastic is that? You have touched me by sharing your hearts, your worlds. Please know Dear Poets how your support, inspiration and patient kindness has strength.

As I lay curled up in the soft nest of
my bed, I do what I do
every morning now,
awake with anticipaticipation of
words that have arrived as I
have slumbered, awaiting your
writes to enrich my Day...

I send you all ripples of Love.
Please take a moment and join
me in acknowledging how unique
and special you all are ...ThankYou
for my amazing journey on HP,
and the delight in knowing It shall continue!

I thank Mark Cleavenger for being
my poetry friend. Wolf for my
beautiful pen name Fluer de Luna
Most of all, thank you Elliot for providing a safe place in which to land.
Peace and Love
Christi Michaels MoonFlower~Fluer de Luna~

Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.

^

and the child of wind born innocence
chases butterflies to the edge,
gathering whispered weeds
of golden sheen,
singing in a lone sparrow’s sonnet,
soaring beyond the cliff,
sending silver lined
cloud bound wishes
to earth…below