width=61 height=87> Voracious Verses
Winter / Spring 2012


Michael Pacholski


Certain Warmth

Look – life’s butterfly-and-bomb 
moments don’t pass one by one  in 
some single-file parade of past to present.
A million glowing seconds 
flutter and hover
in your window all at once
But eye will roam and 
ear re-tune
to find a single point a single 
gaze and focused song.
And all other accomplishment
will flutter back to 
the back of the cloud 
of the eye as a hummingbird’s 
shadow folds and tucks 
itself away moments 
before a rising slant 
of light dips a little baby-skin  toe
in the smile of a cold 
shimmering  river
© 2012 Michael Pacholski



Yes the world 
has dirt and death and murder
and swindling
Chorale your voices
chant in reverie
and stack that heavenly melody
– give to sin a million names and call 
the blood-red clay at your feet whatever you wish
Having already run my finger on that blade – 
the steel curve of the slicing world 
steeped in vinegar with an acid touch – 
my glance has transformed into a look
and the look did die and become a gaze
and the gaze now fixed 
will not be called back down
Sunlight will not leave my speech
nor goodness any action
nor love the domain of my inclusive body
A hundred miles above – a moment 
before it wakes to tell such tales 
the soul has one last peek 
at infinities of  wide and cheering grins  
made of cotton and a dash of water 
and soft, red-cheeked worlds made
of many ticklish feathers
drifting down

© 2012 Michael Pacholski



So she carved and whittled
her art and her sliver of life
out of pebbles or stone or whatever 
geography she chanced to walk upon – 
making miniatures in soil 
or epics in surging water. 
Sometimes she would spy another caught up 
– like she could be –  
in the glows of their own new creations 
and she would whistle, snap, sing or click  
her  arch critiques of  angle, style, school 
learned in basement studies 
and stacks of  starry corners. 
“Hello. You are just my sort.” 
she would say at the very last
hoping the easel moon the paint brush sun 
and metaphor star could sing 
for her in chorus that one right praise or song
she thought she would never quite reach
and the light in the eye that caught the eye
would look at her just so and say
“Yes indeed I am. Tell me more of what you think.” 

© 2012 Michael Pacholski

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