By Michael Shoemaker
Melancholy’s Song
Previously published in Front Porch Review and Fresh Words-An International Literary Magazine
It’s Friday and drizzling again while you drive home listening to the radio with me by your side and the song comes on. It’s the one that sometimes thrills, brings moods or something too hard to describe, but somehow always matches our souls. You roll down the window to watch tiny beads of water bounce off your skin and just about everything smells as it was before- something of lavender. There used to be the taste of the sea breeze on the tips of our tongues and the warmth of our hearts with tenderness and understanding. You turn into my driveway, stop the engine and look at me. Tears roll down our cheeks knowing what can no longer be and what no longer needs to be said. I get out of the car, shut the door and walk away. The last note floats skyward beyond our reach.
Summer Yellow
Previously published by Spirit Fire Review and Fresh Words-An International Literary Magazine
bouncing tennis balls wide brim straw hats roses climbing trellises picking summer squash lemonade with crushed ice in tall thin glasses broad shade umbrellas road construction flaggers’ vests dripping melted butter off corn on the cob reading a book at the library about a man with a big yellow hat marigolds, begonias, petunias, daisies, sundresses, beach balls, flip-flops, nail polish, garden gloves, swimsuits, popsicles, golf balls meadowlarks, warblers, goldfinch, tanagers glow-in-the-dark shoelaces that show up while eating popcorn in a cool dark movie theater sunflowers reaching through my neighbor’s chain link fence into my backyard turning yellow autumn leaves rustle on my porch convert to brown mid-rain, snow, and slush dreaming in my chair in the winter dark summer yellow returns in radiating splendor
Grasshoppers in the Field
In a moment I can be there in my mind an escape from troubles and worry laying in tall green sweet-smelling grass in the barnyard azure sky above the cool damp ground beneath Hot thin stifling air above Hopping grasshoppers sail up in different angles going further than I can see The buzzing of the insect world surrounds me like an invading army to which I pretend to surrender with half-closed eyes The delicate moon far away translucent When the grating voice and shrieking brakes populate my little worldly space you'll know where to find me just in time for the spangled star rise. You're invited to the farm too. No notice, any time. Just make sure to wipe your feet, and don't slam the screen door.
Moonshine on Water
Previously published in the Beckindale Poetry Journal, Utah Life Magazine, and the Compass Literary Magazine
Between awake and asleep I see a still sapphire lake Smooth as glass Silvery sheen From moonshine And mistiness I cast off in a canoe No owner or price Floating from shore Lying in the stern Oneness with the lake As if floating on the surface Stillness and joy Mixed like hydrogen and oxygen Flowing beneath me. Soft, simple, serene.
West Utah Desert
Previously published in Utah Life Magazine and the Nightingale Poetry Journal
Crusted earth crunches beneath my feet pulsating and throbbing heat between the pale desert floor and shimmering white sky is a mirage which makes it appear as if a purple mountain has risen and levitates above the ground. A light puff of dust from a distant gully reminds me of the Pony Express riders and that I am not the first to gaze on this openness, a land of expanding wonders. I find what I am searching. Sublime quietness beyond comprehension, limitless clouds and freedom reawakened and alive in me.
Mom’s Maple Desk Chair
Previously published in Ancient Paths Literary Journal May 2023
Sitting on the chair she worked with bills, taxes, mail, pens, paper, and pad. In this, smooth chair varnished with care her voice within would hallow it with silent prayers. "Father, today, nothing for me, all for them. Please, keep my three boys safe and let them always feel Thy lasting grace." I never heard these silent prayers, but know them as well as the scripture memorized. Looking past her glasses and through her eyes I see the words in her heart, the wellspring of love that never dies.
Pride is a Lonely Station
Previously Published in Littoral Magazine, the Compass Literary Magazine
When pride arrives people depart leaving nothing warm or lasting. Whom pride invades thoughts slice inward antiseptically as a surgeon’s scalpel. Where pride resides it oozes through cracks pulling apart relations widening bafflement -enmity. Warning: Who pride rules is left alone listening to a fading horn in the distant inky dark.
Dry Lightning on the Argentine Plains
The lightning runs its destructive course not to pig, or cattle but to the field with the farmer standing by thunder clouds completely dry. Spark is set, blaze ignites. Fire grows to reach towering heights leaving nothing of wheat kernel or stalk. The farmer falls to his knees in shock left trembling like a leaf in the wind.
From a High Southern Utah Plateau
I shift my feet in the orange dust, widening my stance and shading my eyes. What can I see within a hundred miles looking south from Zion’s? I see my ancestors in the 1860s near Grafton, Utah called by a prophet, planting orchards, farming, digging ditches and praying asking “Have mercy on us, O Lord” and they found mercy. I see a mother of the Anasazi Tribe holding her child close to her heart on the banks of the Virgin River near the evening where the orange sun pours into a pool beyond the horizon.
Florida Lagoon at Noon
Perspiration beading on my face Finding a wrought iron bench A temporary resting place Under a magnolia A shady space. White-spotted eagle rays glide through the water. Other earthly, but ours, if we can keep them. Using acoustic telemetry networks Scientists listen to their shell crushing of clams Hoping to learn how to help them survive. Closing my eyes, the sounds of the lagoon seem amplified. The slap of lapping water moving in and out, The squeaky siren song of manatees, The lusty rhythmic thump of the American bittern, Lulls me to doze in the warmth and peace of the day.
Michael Shoemaker is a poet, writer, and photographer. His poetry has appeared or will soon appear in the Ancient Paths Literary Journal, Front Porch Review and the Beckindale Poetry Journal, the Christian Courier, the Nightingale Poetry Journal, Writers on the Range, and elsewhere. He lives in Utah near the Great Salt Lake with his wife, son, and cat. He enjoys pickleball and gardening.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 