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by Michael Plante She sleeps in metaphors of dying lightblind to the colours that forces the night.Dreaming of my arrival she awaitsas metaphors fall from the evening sky.Like shooting stars they disappearinto oblivion where lovers transform themfrom star dust to roses of the night. I understand her positionher only request is my attention.She thrives in…
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by Michael Plante There is an old tin shed in the woodsits rustic characteristics give it poise and wonderdistinguishing notables’ hang upon the wallsyesteryears’ crafted tools.Our forefather’s pride displayed honorably. Thin saplings line the countrysidemoonlit walk through crunching snowskates tied from laceshang over my shoulder.Under a winter moon I skatealone in the wilderness. Across the…
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by Michael Plante I can’t pretend everything is well.I won’t tell you my problems.Instead I’ll run with scissorsthrough a field of tall grassthat hide the stones that trip people.Maybe I’ll impale myselflike mother always said I would.
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Michael Plante When you see a child sitting outside their house a tear in their eye and smudge dirt on their cheeks;a woman screams from within and the sound of breaking furniture; you understand that it’s not any of your business. So you move on.Your steps become quiet and you search for something to occupy…
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Prologue to Pleasant Memories Behind the building where I grew up was a small wooded area with a creek. Beside that wooded area was a field with a small apple orchard and walkway to a cul-de-sac. On the east side of the creek was a path I knew well. I walked that path, ran it,…
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The Poet's House 