#thepoetshouse
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by Michael Plante The only faith I have leftis my wife’s love for me and the sunset of today.For both have been with me for many yearsand have never diminished. My pride is that I took the timeto hold my wife’s handand listen to her sing her song.To be absorbed by her beautyas the sunset…
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by Michael Plante There’s a chill that creeps up your backwhen the full moon risesand the mist hovers over the hills of Carolina.In the old tin shed a candle is litand placed in the window to ward off the ill.“Never mind about this housemove on to where you need to be” And the spirits call…
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by Michael Plante Moon river bay sleeps like an old manwhen the dead paddle by under the full moon.The spirits of our dead call out like a loon in the darkness“Remember us….remember….”Drifting ice melts awaya new shoreline is reveled.Our ancestors step ashoreand into the shadow of the pines they disappear. Mother moon watches in silence.Her…
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by Michael Plante We are rats in an infinite mazeseeking our cheese to satisfy our hungerbelieving the next corner will bring us closer to our goal.Sniffing the air for directionrubbing our eyes to remove the crud that has formed in the cornerswe contemplate our next move. There will always be four optionsleft, right, forward, or…
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by Michael Plante A square stone made of onyx sits on a shelf in my mind. It holds the cold moon of December. The shelf is in a closet which is in a room, a closed door keeps the closet secured, as another keeps the room closed. There is a long corridor with many doors,…
