The Meaning of Blue we’ll get there by and by -- Joni Michell

by Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke

Why are fires yellow?

Their glow to embers,
their death, is a finest
sun.  A line crossed fades.

Oh, contemplation; sail
a shadow: the stories
grab and hammer, grab
sweetly, tiredly; so we
tack against the sun;
each dawn a watchful
fascination.  The sun on grass.

Another Added Touch

by Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke

Your cleavage, love, in my pocket.
Your sighs, love, on your back

while the sixteen black fingers
cut me

rent me

made me
into a higher form—

                                      Thus,
the train to Manhattan.  Equally,
before our sight, we struggle with
a pinkness of apocalypse,
a tweaked crimson
that becomes our windows,
blows us to silence.

Sonnet 50 for Emily

by Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke

Jon the delectable pixie left his clan –
wiggled his delectable butt at the elves too –
left for the highway life.  When the
Oldsmobile sideswiped a bison, Jon ran
to the nearest redwood and chopped it
down.  A Park Ranger was so enamoured
with Jon’s butt she took off her uniform
and ushered him into her light aircraft.
She set the controls for Finland.  Wow,
there’s plenty of gas in this pixie, she said
besotted by Jon’s butt high above the
North Atlantic.  Finland was a gas!  A tad
cold for naked Danielle, but Jon, ever the
creative one, blew her sunbeams between puffs.