Christine Doreian Michaels
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Christine Doreian Michaels came from England in 1971 and lives and works as a psychologist in Regent Square. She was an invited reader at the James Wright Poetry Festival and is published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Exchange, Taproots, Songs For The Living and internationally in the anthology, No Choice But To Trust.
Mid-Summers Eve in the
Stadium, the Mayflies Rise.
Visiting team opens with four runs, before a Pirate
scuffs the home plate, raises a bat, eyes the pitcher.
His hit sails into the stands, rockets erupt to cheers.
Buy yer peanuts! Cold water two dollars!
Light leaches from the sky, the Gateway Belle
pops on her bulbs like a string of plastic pearls.
The Allegheny drains from grey to navy.
Mayfly nymphs in watery training shuck skins like uniforms.
Tonight they float to the surface, if they survive the game transmute to
dun-colored sub-imagos. At next shedding,
they barter mouths for shiny skins, fairy wings, transformed
for the wedding dance, only one innings to mate, spawn, then die.
Meanwhile, our team loads bases, tries for a homer in ninth.
A soft cloud haunts the field, enters the diamond,
explodes in the spotlight. Mayflies rise, glorious in defeat,
wings a shimmer of cellophane.
Visiting team opens with four runs, before a Pirate
scuffs the home plate, raises a bat, eyes the pitcher.
His hit sails into the stands, rockets erupt to cheers.
Buy yer peanuts! Cold water two dollars!
Light leaches from the sky, the Gateway Belle
pops on her bulbs like a string of plastic pearls.
The Allegheny drains from grey to navy.
Mayfly nymphs in watery training shuck skins like uniforms.
Tonight they float to the surface, if they survive the game transmute to
dun-colored sub-imagos. At next shedding,
they barter mouths for shiny skins, fairy wings, transformed
for the wedding dance, only one innings to mate, spawn, then die.
Meanwhile, our team loads bases, tries for a homer in ninth.
A soft cloud haunts the field, enters the diamond,
explodes in the spotlight. Mayflies rise, glorious in defeat,
wings a shimmer of cellophane.
Roumania
Hard-muscled waif, burgandy leather
clings like plastic wrap, barely reaches thigh top.
Nightly, husky as Dietrich, vibrating like Piaf,
Volare… cantare… she wants to sing
but not round and round the Mediterranean
a warm undemanding sea going nowhere.
Elderly cruisers sit, some tap their toes.
One couple stumbles through half a number,
another, in spite of their girth, float
round the small floor, leaning into the pitch
of the waves. Start spreading the news.…
Hair, the color of a bruised plum,
splinters of glass, eyes glint green and cold
as the Atlantic washing the shores of opportunity.
Shes jamming till the mornin light for a pittance
sings for something beyond these over-fed tourists
beyond her predictable thumping back-up.
In the early hours, down in crews quarters,
the drummer makes her tapes, Roumania ,
for a few extra bucks. Her last song from Evita ,
voice flashes a knife-edge, Dont cry for me.….……
Hard-muscled waif, burgandy leather
clings like plastic wrap, barely reaches thigh top.
Nightly, husky as Dietrich, vibrating like Piaf,
Volare… cantare… she wants to sing
but not round and round the Mediterranean
a warm undemanding sea going nowhere.
Elderly cruisers sit, some tap their toes.
One couple stumbles through half a number,
another, in spite of their girth, float
round the small floor, leaning into the pitch
of the waves. Start spreading the news.…
Hair, the color of a bruised plum,
splinters of glass, eyes glint green and cold
as the Atlantic washing the shores of opportunity.
Shes jamming till the mornin light for a pittance
sings for something beyond these over-fed tourists
beyond her predictable thumping back-up.
In the early hours, down in crews quarters,
the drummer makes her tapes, Roumania ,
for a few extra bucks. Her last song from Evita ,
voice flashes a knife-edge, Dont cry for me.….……
Inner Peace
twice a day I sit
hands cupped like a begging bowl
waiting for silence
never noisier
not the down-shift of a truck
but flooding thoughts
race helter skelter
clamouring to be heard
above the mantra
plans and reveries
drain through memorys sieve
I read and reread
the days commitments
sticking a note for the still-to-do
on next week
where was I?
Oh, yes, chanting
three small syllables
vibrations given in trust
twice a day for twenty minutes
rippling the clutter
twice a day I sit
hands cupped like a begging bowl
waiting for silence
never noisier
not the down-shift of a truck
but flooding thoughts
race helter skelter
clamouring to be heard
above the mantra
plans and reveries
drain through memorys sieve
I read and reread
the days commitments
sticking a note for the still-to-do
on next week
where was I?
Oh, yes, chanting
three small syllables
vibrations given in trust
twice a day for twenty minutes
rippling the clutter