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Welcome to the home page of poet MICHAEL KESHIGIAN, author of thirteen poetry chapbooks and collections, including The Garden Of Summer, 2019, Flutter Press, Into The Light, 2017, Flutter Press and two chaplets,Inexplicable and Beyond, appearing online at Black Poppy Review. Eagle's Perch  from Bellowing Ark Press, a book of poems with observations and experiences concerning the Lakes Region in New Hampshire. His writing has appeared in numerous national and international journals as well as many online publications. He has been the feature poet in The Aurorean, Poetree Magazine, Bellowing Ark, The Illogical Muse, The Westward Quarterly Pegasus Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Red River Review, Illya's Honey and Reader’s Choice in the Fairfield Review. He is a 6-time Pushcart Prize and 2-time Best Of The Net nominee.


All morning long

I’ve listened to the song

of a single cardinal

ripple stillness

just outside

the patio screen. 

An opera in red tux,

his throat is a spring

stretching an aria

through the cluttered house

of sound, awakening memories

of events since past.

The timbre enlivens my heart.

I can almost touch

what once was

as it floats between

song and wind. An inflection 

so crisp, I’m convinced

the cardinal sings for more

than to merely texture

the commotion. His tune

incites another gift.

He performs daily,

tireless and without hoarseness,

to make sad hearts flutter.




He stands in the open doorway,

a brisk breeze caresses his face.

There is a shadow cast

from a dried maple branch

of straight lines 

dyed black upon the lawn 

that resembles a stick man, 

an apparition that points up

as if to designate its source.

He imagines himself the outline

penciled atop the green,

where the grass is cool and moist

as it brushes his skin,

where vagrant ants 

and earthworms tickle his underside

when they course beneath.

The landscape is quiet otherwise.

He is content.

Vagrant clouds, like the years,

move rapidly over him, 

close enough to the sun 

to threaten and momentarily 

dissipate his imprint. 

There is nothing he might do

to stem the inevitable,

but to distract himself

with the magic about,

for the future is black,

the present, light,

though it will yield no notice

when it dissolves him.


His little hole in the Boston skyline,

one window lined with soot

facing Fenway Park.

In the room overhead,

there was a clarinet

that stalked Stravinsky’s Three Pieces

every evening.

During the day it was mostly quiet,

the crowd on the sidewalks

resembled the spiders in the room,

preying with thick overcoats

to catch the unsuspecting

in a web woven with smog

dimly illuminated with the little light

that penetrated the building alleys,

so dark, he could only shave

with a lamp in his face.

Every morning at 7:30 A.M.,

students clamored on the staircase,

rushing en route to classes

at the universities

and colleges around the corner,

the clarinet player would flush the toilet

then turn on the shower.

Once in a while, a bird

chirped or tweeted, like a bell chime,

so close to his door,

for a moment, he believed

he had a visitor.


In the beginning it must have been

that the Neanderthal

emerged from his cave

early one day

into a cold and ruthless world

and noticed for the first time

sun’s reflection glistening 

upon lake serenity

between twin peaks

of a snow covered summit.

And speechless 

as he might have been

for images never seen,

he fell to his knees, 

stared mutely,

unable to excise

the swell in his soul,

and realized 

each morning thereafter

would speak differently.

"Wildflowers grabbed me close on the very first reading.  Most intriguing poems."
-Michele M. Graf, Poetry Editor, Apollo's Lyre

"As a poet, Keshigian is subtle, joyous and accomplished."

-Peter C. Leverich, Editor, Avocet

"As usual, fine and rewarding work.  It is through reviewing writers such as Michael Keshigian that I find work such an enjoyable task."

-Art Bounds, Pegasus Review

Wildflowers available for purchase at  Lulu Marketplace

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