Perhaps in time, I will understand love,
How our separate bodies are to become one,
Perhaps in time, I will understand
How I never could love you,
While loving you.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.

T.S. Elliot reminds me that I don't have to rhyme,
Every line,
                  or,
                      be on time, in measure,
Or attitude,
Or make sense,
Or only write when I'm depressed,
Or sad or angry.

Which is good,
Because I, (and I'm not being sarcastic),
honestly feel fine

When DedPoet faked his death
He let go all drama,
All the non sense poets seem
To get into because we think we
Are connected.

I DONT KNOW YOU.

And I just want to write poetry
Without me in it,
Without your emotions stirring
An imaginary ***.

I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND.

I am a fellow poet who studies
This craft,
This art,
This therapy that saved my life.
And you and me we are just words
In the the beautifully unstable
Majestic poem that is all in our
Heads.

I BLOCK POETS WHO STIR POTS.

Because I just want to write
Without all the drama.
I feel your eyes pointed at me.
And I could care less.
I faked my death to ****
Any thoughts of friendship,
I am Dedpoet,
Im here to write,
What the hell are you doing?

~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.

Try as I might
Only see things
In black and white
Really black spreading carrion bird
Vulture wings to pick clean to bone

No friend just a fake toothache smile
Who wants something
Too bad too late all used up
Throw away mate
Past best before date
Rotten meat parasite infested

Inevitable buried garbage pit fate
Dig it just big enough for
A dead little Elliot me
Be my Big Sur Billie
And ******* bury me

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed

November is the cruelest month, destroying
What once was for what will be
The snow will stalk our dreams, hoping
To fill the emptiness of another summer’s end
Earth will forget the dead
As I forget what it was to be a student

Labour fuels my hours, surviving
One year to the next, a broken man
Where is the Spring I once knew so well?
Where is my heart in this cruel world?
Where is time but in these broken images?
Memory is insufficient to be my food

The wind howls and I am the trees
Who have endured so much, again and again
The famous shadows on the ground mean nothing
They are what they were, darkness spreading
These unreal cities are all the same
With their cosmopolitan jargon and anonymity

Each trying to out duel the next, competition
In the workplace, in the dating market
One must be so careful these days
Friends depart without a trace, elders die
Families get divided, partners divorce
The winter dawn has its own beauty

A short and infrequent storm, the bloom
Of white to carpet our weary feet
On roads of fate, sometimes without shelters
Without kindred souls who know us deeply
The synthetic atmospheres of urban life
A society of white walkers, whose truth

Only mimics the fallen empires of liberty
The false figures of unemployment rates
Which do not count those who have given up
Indebted states, welfare states, police states
And the persistent rumour that democracy is dead.