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The room was dark at midday when Yogi breathed his last.
His brain, now starved for oxygen, went searching through his past.
Did he recall the shores of France back when he was nineteen?
Or think upon those rings he’d won with those great 50’s teams?
Dying, his mind searched frantically, jumping from place to place
Here was Larsen’s perfect game where he jumped and they embraced.
There was that heated argument when Robinson stole home.
Then the pain and anger when Steinbrenner sent him home.
Yet as these memories dissolved within his dying mind,
He finally found the peace he sought; his Carmen, good and kind.
He took her hand and they embraced on the shore of a moonlit sea.
Yogi’s gone. Now the future isn’t what it used to be.
Number 8, Yogi Berra, Number 8.   rest in peace
Life's game
pretty lean
trying to hold
against the dark night
born writer,
lover, friend,
breast fed hunger
palms love
as if the last
birthing push
burst into spring
would bring the flowers
back,
last gale clinging to winter
preferring pain to
Passover
or fear of future.
What we need is the
courage of spring
and every breath
between,
a dream in labor.
Infrared light
black light secrets
blue battered sun
yellow
outrage,
tricksters in paradise
loading up
the gun
wild fire
caged in Ice
made it twice
as fun
beer bellied
acrobats
bouncing off the wall
blaring on
the run
caught the bus
to
Cambridge,
Eyebrows filling
the space
of another persons
world,
underlining
their names,
curious
questions
bright with colors,
the honey fist
of Isis biting a coin
for authenticity
pull me from the abyss,
endless sleep
these Maritime martyrs
at the expense of a soul
does she really know,
to what depths
we dive to save
time in squares,
trenches,
backwater streets
in tired boxes,
men throw shoes
at singing alley cats,
tears and thoughts
litter the sheets.
He told me my scars weren't beautiful
And I told him that no one could ever really admire a masterpiece
Without taking a few steps back
Your scars make you who you are and no matter what you are beautiful
Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're drinking wine
but thinking gin
and how they
torched that place
with sin.
A taste of pure
before the cut
left her feeling
anything but...
Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're thinking wine
but drinking gin
and how they
torch that place
with sin.
He's got a ticket to ride
Golden laced
repeat patterns dance
beneath closed lashes
Sunlight finding it's way

through shimmering ripples, 
I see before me
Woman of the Water.
Stance of resilience,

silloute to sky. She
skims the surface.
An apparition.
This Goddess dancing atop

the waves. Paddle in hand,
solid upon her watercraft.
She knows her strength, gliding
above a sparkling world of secrets.*

~Christi Michaels~June 2015~

Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Just between you and me,
I'd rather be a saint than a poet...

But to see the world like this:

A huge, shining consonant, lying on its side,
over the very ordinary clothesline,
well,
that's something, isn't it?
©Elisa Maria Argirò
The dusk came;
I watched the moon glowing,
and there I have it,
a word to describe the feeling when you’re bluer than blue;
Yellow, darling,
that’s what it felt like, right?
Glowing, but empty.
It’s time to let go of those
who lift you up just to leave you emptier
than when they found you.
Remember how the sun sets to make way for the moon?
Well, this I tell you:
The moon leaves for a brighter day.
The dawn came;
I watched as the sun turned slowly
from red
to bright orange.
It’s the morning,
and
it’s
beautiful.
It’s time to rise and shine darling.
Rise above the horizon
and shine brighter.

To become your own sun,
to realize that you are the world,
and that
the people,
and the places,
and the phrases
and words
and thoughts
and ideas
that revolve
and pass around you
are
to each
their own solar systems.
It was wrong of them to tell us
that no man is an island.
Each one of us is an island,
and it is when you
peek into
The
Looking
Glass
that you realize
that some islands
have beacons
and some have
watchtowers,
yet all of them
are searching
for another light.
To shine in their way;
to lead,
or be lead
home.”

*Y.O. & D.C.
A collaboration between my dearest bestfriend and I :)
Before the light comes,
the wind comes.
The wind of God.
The wind of God travels
all over the Earth,
awakening the night-sleeping birds,
bringing freshness to every land.
New hope, even where we are troubled,
or grieving, or suffering.
Often these days, this wind of God
blows through my open heart.
And it frees me to love totally,
to love innocently, to love bravely,
As God loves us.
©Elisa Maria Argiro

At the time this poem was forming into words, I was awakening early each morning, stepping out into the first rustling wind that, scientists tell us, literally travels around the Earth.
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