I TRAVEL WITH YOUR BUTTERFLIES

Image and poem by me

I TRAVEL WITH YOUR BUTTERFLIES

I travel with your butterflies
where Easter Island statues
get their red hats
through our slideshow weekend
hand in hand

lost together in open fields
forgetting how to erase
the convergent lines
of our own Stonehenge
Labor Day getaway

Sometimes it takes the lyrics
of an instrumental
to break waves against sand

Now here we are
so awaken, shaken
by light and burn of fog
in spirit of wind, voice
and minor scales

while a chosen white Sunday bats an eye
to find you still here on Monday
returning to gather your pillows
and another taste of my lips
while I try to keep a dry eye
gazing out the wind-
ow
through your sad left eye

trying so hard not to smother you
by missing you too much
as you drive away
in broken light of shadow crawl

I must admit I vowed
to not expect anything from you
and anything
never happened

except what I am afraid to share
right now
even though we both felt
the butterfly’s wings
cut the afternoon fog
into single servings
on a plate for two

Now the beauty of our time together
invites my head on its loveseat lap
until the movie ends

And that’s the problem
every movie ends

Every candle betrays its wick
and tonight the weekend
concludes
without polite applause

We’ve both have been around
long enough to know tomorrow
always shakes the tree
of ripened fruit
to sell on street corners
handpicked
for last minute meals

The moisture in these tired eyes
knows the fade to black
all to well

yet I remain foolish enough
to always believe

always believe
you will be here
after the papers are signed
in indelibly edible ink

hoping I can slow
the butterfly’s wing
in time for the final meal
forever
on this plate
for two

right before the dance
the final dance
near this plate for two
and fade to
black

~Mike Welch

REQUIEM TO A GRANDMA

REQUIEM TO A GRANDMA

Almost a century of life has touched us
A grandma to an entire world
A pair of arms in a garden of hugs
Always present across state lines
nine decades, four generations,
two world wars, the Great Depression,
entire nations crumbling before her eyes

never daring to blink
in the presence of a husband,
four children
and more grand children
and great grand children
(even great great grand children)
than the entire count of jelly beans
in an old Mason jar
on her kitchen windowsill

To say she will be missed
is to say the petal misses the stem

She was a perennial bulb
blooming in our common soil,
an all too uncommon trait
in God’s garden of life

She was an angel to my wife
a friend and a Grandma
with a capital “G” to me

She wanted me to carry her to rest

I carry out my promise in metaphor
while she enters the next life
saying to everyone awaiting her arrival
“How are you-uns?” as she opens the gate

You were more than a grandma
You were great

~Mike Welch

A BAG OF DOLLS

A BAG OF DOLLS

Accidental impact
a lengthy wait for electricity
along the boulevard of disregard

when the sweat of the day
evaporates into scent
marking stones along the path

what passes before me
in the form of a clear plastic bag
shall never this way elapse again

obstructing the view
of a bag of dolls
in opaque translucence

complaining about narcissists
while panhandling for praise
for the terrible price of love

with a side dish
of deep-fried appetizers
at a table for one

never realizing love is what’s left
after the blossoms die
at the ringside seat of ignorance

after the left hook
fells the champ
for a count to ten

because we never
see it coming
we who can weep

at the sound of a note
a woman’s touch
or the color of a sky

counting to ten
at the Nowhere Bar
and Grill

~Mike Welch

BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT POST-ITS

One of my graphics with one of my poems

BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS
ABOUT POST-ITS

A presentation
to brainstorm
in the blank clubs
saying it would be great
to stick ‘em without a paper clip
and the rest is a soft ramble
under a scarf of yellow
and shades because
you are more believable
as a designer because
you are obviously try
for one
to blow up in my face
and the car stops.

In a room of white
when the weather girl invents a fortune
at a tea social all by herself
sporting a special kind of glue
for at least three of the four buttons
on her dress
before being hit by that car.

Part of the pilgrimage
to the parking lot involves
a failure of the weather
to offer a proper lease option
on southerly winds
so we gather
at the geometrically-shaped
patch of uneven asphalt
for an obscure rewards program
with a zero rate
introductory plan
at your local website
where the teapot boils
and no one cares.

For a complete inventory
of the contents of this ceiling
in act one scene five
let me make it up to you
as a present to myself.

Somewhere behind these wiper blades
we danced when the car stopped that day
and I fumbled the rhythm
even though you were kind enough
in your failure to notice
as you took off your top…
and the results of the surgery
through the car into reverse
as we lurched forward
from the compassionate force
of the double negative
(because you know I love it
when you pull your hair back
to show me the bruise
on your knee).

Because art is a balancing act
a blend of white sheets
with a high thread count
gracing the army cot canopy bed
in this dirt floor palace
warehouse of trinkets
and assorted finery
assembled just in time
for this commercial break
of coordinated colors
and you will be amazed
how much you appreciate
the taste of Hamburger Helper
sound bites in surround sound
because you know
you can trust Woolite
and it’s always a good time
to buy a home.

The wait is over
until Saturday.

Open this stanza with nothing
but blues notes from a Stratocaster
for at least three
or four lines
before the bass and percussion
find these tears in your eyes
when everything under your rug
comes out to play
and you have to pull over
for another left turn
because the power of a few guitar notes
can take you where you need to be
and for the duration of a minute
if luck is on your side
everything comes together
and you know
the stoplight loves you.

~Mike Welch

all material copyrighted © Mike Welch 2008

TORN GLASS AND SHATTERED CLOTH

One of my drawings with one of my poems

TORN GLASS AND SHATTERED CLOTH

This woman at this table outside this café
alone with her coffee
accompanied by the empty table top
sans napkins, assorted pastries and plastic utensils
only her elbows gracing the table
amongst the white noise of life locked
outside her command
erecting a wall as a dare
hoping for my bravery to surface for its demolition
puts all of her energy into ignoring me
as I return the pretense of disregard
with the faithful response of a mirror
in an airport restroom
reflecting the luggage of passersby
and pundits reporting the scene
of her long slow sip and the math of her grin
summing up the tally of her scorecard
and the rain beneath her canopy
in the glare of morning sunspots
a huge victory in a small state
voting for the integrity of the process
and the exit polls reflecting my indirect intent
of taming indifference with obsession
because I know, okay we both know
the planting of trees affects the water we drink
and we both scream our thirst
with this contest of counterfeit apathy
as we curse the game
with a mouthful of torn glass
and shattered cloth
draped across the table
as I walk to the parking lot
hoping somehow my Honda
will refuse to start

~Mike Welch

THE RUTHLESS TRUST OF RHYTHM AND INK

One of my drawings with one of my poems

THE RUTHLESS TRUST OF
RHYTHM AND INK

I live by the sanction of days
subtracted on my forehead
wading barefoot
through puddles of chance
and streams moistened
by the lips of wonder
bartering my riches of solitude
to legalize this tender
for a chance to increase the odds
of comfort and shelter
as I feel the careless caress
of the hour hand obey
the ruthless trust of rhythm and ink
with the quiet grace of fallen angels
warding off the trespass
of those who come here
bearing empty pockets
thirsting for my lake
as I investigate
the condition of truth
into millenniums of stone
and the masonry of the species
as my children
race past my goalpost
following the footprints
of these poems
the only deal I have inked
through the loophole
of mortality

~Mike Welch

THE MOVEMENT OF MOUNTAINS ON A HOT SUMMER DAY

One of my drawings with one of my poems

THE MOVEMENT OF MOUNTAINS
ON A HOT SUMMER DAY

He was in the back seat
staring out the open window
the utility poles passing by
faster than the mountains
behind the Burma Shave rhymes
beating time
to the hum of mismatched tires
riding on wishbone suspension
and a body by Fisher
his mother and father ignoring each other
in the front seat of the two tone
Fairlane station wagon of his life
the radio tuned between two stations
competing with the decibels
in his dreams beyond the mountains
crawling backwards
when he decided to walk away
at the next rest stop
when suddenly the radiator blew
and the engine stalled
a mere five hundred meters from where
he raised his family decades ago
gathered today
by his hole in the ground
just beyond where the utility poles
stopped moving
with the mountains

~Mike Welch

THE WRECKING BALL

One of my drawings with one of my poems

THE WRECKING BALL

He is probably a man like me
alone at his table
outside
enjoying the solitude of coffee
in a field of scattered wind
bruising his eyes
trapped in a blueprint fading to red
over the collective rooftops
blinking with the determination
of a mother tending
to her grown children
hanging in nine by twelve
aluminum frames
shattered by the progress
of a wrecking ball

she received for Mother’s Day
so long ago
that hangs from the necklace
they all pitched in to buy
for her funeral
and I notice he is not
wearing a watch
and he never asks
for the time

~Mike Welch

ANOTHER CONCERT IN THE PARK

One of my drawings with one of my poems

ANOTHER CONCERT
IN THE PARK

Burning the candle
at both ends
blowing the torch a kiss
from broken lips
locked to the frost
on the glass
offered as a toast
to the end of a flight
beyond the moon.
Take my knees
and kneel before me
as I cease to exist
beyond these words.
Please forgive the thistles
modifying my verbs
and forgive this face
in skin tight eyes
staring at the flames
consuming our wax
and if ever
a daylight drops on my head
I will meet you
at another Sunday afternoon
concert in the park
and light the candle
all over again.

~Mike Welch

A LITTLE MAKEUP AND THE VOICE OF ELVIS

One of my graphics and one of my poems

A LITTLE MAKEUP
AND THE VOICE OF ELVIS

I feel your feather on my skin,
your jealousies
and your sad, lost hopes
spelling c-o-m-r-a-d-e
across the fold of our map.
I will be the ground you walk on,
your solid earth and true north,
as you feel new worlds into existence,
your walker, your cane
and your wings for airlift
to read the script of desert clouds
burning through the soft unease
of monsoon skies.
Through the courage of water we flow.
I am merely an actor
trapped on my own stage
hiding behind my greasepaint
and reciting lines from another script,
raising kids and untangling the knots
that lace my boots
while working for cheap applause
from an impatient crowd
waiting for the voice of Elvis
while the production lingers for its fade
to a gradual gray.

~Mike Welch