READ
https://hellopoetry.com/@michael-powers
<>
it ain’t necessarily so
that with each hard earned script,
you become a better craftsman,
another ring added to your owned tree,
gets you surely older, maybe wiser,
maybe better, maybe not
was gifted a love of words by my parents,
who sent we three to the library,
every Friday afternoon,
to elect to select
as many books (limit 5)
we could imbibe/successfully carry home each weekend
these were injections,
vaccines to prevent illiteracy,
pills to mend our humanity,
given to curry our imaginations, with roads to travel,
and nourishment for love, to grow within
and to be given, with out
hesitation
so imagine my amateurish sillied delight,
when in this vast temple of words I step on a thorn,
a prickly dry humored one,
who invents his own Braille,
requiring the mind to savor the slivers of silver
he delicately feeds us in crumbles of lines of poetry,
syncopated rhymes,
and dream of the day
when he free verses his skillet of words,
from the binding of rhyming…
oh, I over~gush,
not enough,
one poem all it took,
his juxta’s~
posed, purposed, positioned
clarifying our inner contradictions
make me spike while whispering
hot ****
enough.
So I repost here within, my fave,
and ask you seek out his skilled humanity:
~~~~~
“Learned To Bleed Before Dawn.......”
The moon is a callus, silver and cold,
A story the marrow has already told.
Before the first sparrow, before the first light,
I mastered the Braille of the deepening night.
There is a quiet, a seismic design,
In tracing the break of a long-hidden line.
While the world was in slumber, wrapped in its lace,
I was learning the maps on the underside of grace.
The ink is a witness, the pulse is a pen,
Writing the "where" and the "how" and the "when."
No sunrise could startle, no shadow could cheat,
One who has walked through the fire on bare feet.
For the wound is a window, the ache is a door,
I am not what I lost, but the salt of the core.
I don’t fear the day or the heat of the sun—
I learned how to bleed before light had begun.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 11:17 AM UTC
READ
https://hellopoetry.com/@michael-powers
<>
it ain’t necessarily so
that with each hard earned script,
you become a better craftsman,
another ring added to your owned tree,
gets you surely older, maybe wiser,
maybe better, maybe not
was gifted a love of words by my parents,
who sent we three to the library,
every Friday afternoon,
to elect to select
as many books (limit 5)
we could imbibe/successfully carry home each weekend
these were injections,
vaccines to prevent illiteracy,
pills to mend our humanity,
given to curry our imaginations, with roads to travel,
and nourishment for love, to grow within
and to be given, with out
hesitation
so imagine my amateurish sillied delight,
when in this vast temple of words I step on a thorn,
a prickly dry humored one,
who invents his own Braille,
requiring the mind to savor the slivers of silver
he delicately feeds us in crumbles of lines of poetry,
syncopated rhymes,
and dream of the day
when he free verses his skillet of words,
from the binding of rhyming…
oh, I over~gush,
not enough,
one poem all it took,
his juxta’s~
posed, purposed, positioned
clarifying our inner contradictions
make me spike while whispering
hot ****
enough.
So I repost here within, my fave,
and ask you seek out his skilled humanity:
~~~~~
“Learned To Bleed Before Dawn.......”
The moon is a callus, silver and cold,
A story the marrow has already told.
Before the first sparrow, before the first light,
I mastered the Braille of the deepening night.
There is a quiet, a seismic design,
In tracing the break of a long-hidden line.
While the world was in slumber, wrapped in its lace,
I was learning the maps on the underside of grace.
The ink is a witness, the pulse is a pen,
Writing the "where" and the "how" and the "when."
No sunrise could startle, no shadow could cheat,
One who has walked through the fire on bare feet.
For the wound is a window, the ache is a door,
I am not what I lost, but the salt of the core.
I don’t fear the day or the heat of the sun—
I learned how to bleed before light had begun.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
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