adieu

Adieu: A Poem

“You don’t even give me time to miss you,” she said

While I had one foot out the door and both eyes

On the girl from across the room who was

Paying rapt attention to my half-sulking, half-dead

Words hanging at my sides

 

“She always like that?” the girl whispered

I moved closer to her, just to feel her breathe on my pale

skin. So seductive those mouthfuls of poems

Being sent my way, like words wrapped in blankets,

Warm and cozy—and I felt at home

 

“Are you always this kind?” I asked her.

“See, the last girl never cared about it.

I spent most of my days jotting notes written

On the backs of letters being sent to ‘Elsewhere’

A place where I knew she’d never miss them”

 

“Don’t stop now. I hear your love in writing.

The way your eyes light up against a dark-night hurt

as you hold my hand and tell me all the places you’ve

never been but wish to go. And time leaves us alone.”

I whisper, “Promise me you’ll be here when I return.”

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

autumn

And I Smile Too

Is this “I love you”? For—

 

Your lips taste like hallelujah

The kind that is muttered during godless hours

when children lie dreaming

beneath starry showers

And your nightgown is the see-through-you

 

Your eyes cast the divine

The kind that is found in cathedrals and stained windows

icons casting glances

wax candles that burn low

Painting sunsets on my soul’s tide

 

Your words are the lovely simple

The kind that slip through holes in your body

falling on my tongue like

mists of sweet, sweet honey

Watching your cheeks forecast dimples

 

And I smile too.

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

bloomed-explosions-of-radiant-unknowing

Bloomed Explosions of Radiant Unknowing: A Romantic Poem

I drew her up like water from a spring found flowing

With rains placed on receptive laps of summer

Where flowers bloomed explosions of radiant unknowing

And eyes that haunted mellow stars above her

 

Her eyes a deepest black of bluest seas

Hands trading in burnt bronze for pearls

Damn necklace torn from collar in ecstasy

Restless lips of mine find home eternal

 

I had her pressed against the ground like an iron plow

Her straps dropped like kernels into fertile black soil

Green valleys of rolling love on her naked brow

Kisses etching marks on her skin unspoiled

 

Near the desert regions of her sunshine navel

I found myself lurking in quenched exploration

That thirst of old and fragrant new, entangled

Her body, my body, in Edenic damnation

 

Did I ever know her, and she know me?

Or were we seasons on opposite ends of the year?

Always holding hands at a distance of two trees

One blooming summer and the other budding spring…

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

I am currently finishing a master’s thesis at Emory University in theology and the philosophy of language. In my spare time, I am working on a romance novel called “The Seduction of Koroleva” and a collection of romantic poetry being written under the working title “In(Finite) Red.”

adultery poem

Ghost Kiss: A Poem

I cannot kiss your sparkled lips
As we roam our souls downtown
City lights wander drunken, toxic
Blind ghost-kisses landing on your mouth

The wet paint from twilight’s crime
Sticks to your heels like lover dust
Leaves you adulterous and mesmerized
Vain attempts to pretend focus

You quake your spine to face my wrath
Those sacred lips of yours still moving
Two ghosts and an insomniac
That tongue of yours accusing

And who the hell may they all be
if not some ravenous intruders?
I’ll wait for death to erase me
To discuss what still behooves us

So will it be that frozen phrase?
We said: “‘Till death do us part”
If so, then kill me; do not wait!
Your vows writhe, breaking on the rocks

But you are much too cunning, Sweets
To speak cruel words, weep poison
Beneath the skies of tidy sheets
You’ll sex me till I’m noiseless

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to: E. A. P. (without traces of K)

 

AUTHOR’S NOTES: I’ve always found the concept of reconciliation post-adultery rather fascinating. Do people actually forgive the Other or do they merely forget? Or, which is more likely the case, do they simply pretend? Pretend to not care; pretend to not recall the atrocious act committed; pretend that it’ll never happen again.

It is, as my poem suggests (not that my interpretation of the poem has anything to add of any authority, since authorial intent is usually eradicated in the presence of the potent subjectivities of my fellow readers), the story of an adulterous affair committed by the feminine, female character. (Not that female characters are predisposed to such things; rather, I could not imagine it otherwise, being a heterosexual male myself [and such acts would, I assume, be committed against me by none other than a female character; but, of course, “God forbid!”]).

The poem begins with the negative, the “cannot” (reminding me of the “thou shalt nots” filling the Hebrew Scriptures). The characters find themselves entering city lights. And, if one is familiar with Johannine literature, one would know that sinners are afraid of entering the light. And the light becomes, for our female character, something which is rather “toxic.” Once in the light, the male character realizes the ghost-kisses, the “twilight crimes” committed by the Mrs.

But where lie her crimes? They are stuck beneath her heels; they are hidden—but they are, nonetheless, there, stuck to her like wet paint.

Once the conversation turns to confrontation, she pretends to focus. But it’s not meant to be. Then comes the victim mentality, the psychological rationalization. “Of course, it wasn’t me! It was that ghost, that invisible and ever-absent Other!”

The next several lines are self-explanatory; there is no need for me to comment on them.

The closing stanza changes the scene to the bedroom. There the couple is having sex with the male character’s voice coming to a close as he exchanges ethics and anger for sex. And so, sex wins. Sex is the de facto dictator when it comes to silencing those who have a voice, making them utterly “noiseless.”

poem poetry rain drops romantic romance dark unrequited love sensual

When the Tears Wrote: A Poem

Seek to love first rather than understand

For faith is a virtue your lover demands

Hurricane tides and nomadic dreams

Innumerable changes in fluctuating seas

Flowers sent first, prior to meeting

Hand held back, coy, her passions receding

 

Oh, but her youth, so brief and so tender

Like reckless and wilting roses you sent her

Maybe she’ll change? Maybe she’ll listen?

Could I be a god in her damn religion?

May I be Bonhoeffer when your Hitlers rise?

Could I be your Jesus or your Anti-Christ?

 

But this—this is poison, her potent hemlock

She’ll rest, peacefully, while I wrestle sleepwalk

Drug me tonight—again, again, and again

I’m spent on you; have no hope left to mend

Take all you will; I’m distant and drunken

I, Leaning Pisa; and you, Tower of London

 

Roses I’ve sent for various reasons

A poet’s regret is a literary artesian

And who am I to be sending her blossoms?

A ghost lingering ‘round her mind so colossal

Surely she knows that I am mere human?

Dead words on my page, while her body’s my music…

 

Why not take a chance? Why not share a moment?

Are you really so cold? and I, so fatefully boring?

Your beauty makes poems rain in my head

Floodwaters and rhymes have left me for dead

Should I charge you for murder on numerous counts?

Will you offer salvation? Grace—just an ounce?

 

Am I not worth saving, if only for rhymes?

For you, rewrite Shakespeare in four lovely lines

But you’re just a girl with a heart made of foam

Poets, like myself, your naiveté dethrones

So long brazen mistress; I’ve done what I could

I’ll rest my pen while tears write of you

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

 

Dedicated to K.

demons

Demons: A Poem

Come, join me in my wicked rhymes
Where ghosts are haunted and zombies die
I have a sickness, or was it a disease?
I can write tragic, deafening poetry
It all began when demons came
A demon crawling for it was lame
That vice of virtues and twisted plots
Where hearts are bruised and sorrows sought
I seen a demon, “please tell,” said she
“Had it a pretty smile like me?”
“Yes, smiles – plastic and all around
With hearts of foam that beat underground”
It was you yourself who came to me
Upon the edge of my words and toxic fantasy
I indulged that demon to the point of love
A ring she asked and contracts thereof
I couldn’t wait to have her whole
I called the devil to bid on my soul
That poor wretch and wicked beast!
Failed to show – my soul sold least
Had he been there to bid upon
This heart of gold to beauty drawn
I wanted much for her to stay
But she asked for money and I for prayer
Before the night could yet commence
She called it quits and burnt frankincense
That wicked beast of ages past
He never showed – but then alas!
A bright light and broken glass
A being stared back at me so crass
I awakened from my fantastic rhymes
For the beast, the demon, were both I

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

abyss

A Religious Abyss: A Poem

Love’s pain a virtue

That you don’t want to miss

Her eyes a culture

A religious abyss

 

There’s a light in this town

Where she only glows

The keys are locked out

And her secrets not known

 

I’m always wandering

So near and so far

She’s deaf to pondering

How close is my heart?

 

I walk in shadows

Where the light is my grave

She says she can’t go

Where the night is my day

 

My eerie romance

Leaves nothing to bare

Bones all exposed

Silhouettes running scared

 

This town is haunted

With fragments of her

My mind is wandering

My heart is allured

 

My mouth it waters

At the sight of her dress

Her sex skin hollers

Marry the “con” to the “fess”

 

Her eyes are pearls

That fell from the sky

Comets unfurl

Where wool meets the dye

 

Touch, taste and lipstick

She wears on her cheek

I am a misfit

Could I sneak your peek?

 

I’ll talk my way in

Right through closed doors

Your makeup wears sin

Like Juliet and Romeo

 

My words make her novels

Where she is the saint

I am the sinner

From birth to the grave

 

Let’s shelter our passions!

Let’s make them our home!

Drown math by fractions

Where partial is whole

 

Hang on, dear innocence!

We’ve got nothing to lose

My eyes are no hypocrites

No way in hell she’s a ruse

 

Slow down the night

Before we get started

Her backed-up smiles

Souls of the departed

 

I hope to taste her

To spill a wet kiss

Those eyes a culture

A religious abyss…

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to: a muse, a yet-to-be-determined—a non-existent entity, inspiring the pseudo-romantic poems of a flailing poet on the verge of The Verge Itself, writing with the last drops of dropping blood, which flows from the veins of a Spanish Armada, that had sunken—deep, deep, deep—within the bowls of a boisterous ocean…For what else does one write? On behalf of whom does one breathe? One cannot breathe underwater anyhow. Perhaps one only writes when one has already died a deep, deep, deep death. 

dark romance romantic poem poetry in red moses mikheyev

In Red: A Poem

Crimson colors wash a dress

Worn to the rhythms of a chest

Containing a fragmented heart built to impress

 

Red satisfies like a thousand colors

Wears you out by a thousand lovers

Your wrists are draped in pearled hollows

 

Love you softly with tender low-key

Pick a mood where you unclothe me

Knuckles clenched leave me torn and lonely

 

Find a gaze where I am youth

Where I bleed emotions—not bulletproof

Seek and ye shall find my truth

 

Drip with myth your tender lips

Caress my chin, you unclenched fist

Hasten the night, you subtle bitch

 

Emotions wide and vast like seas

Bermuda Triangles she depletes

A stone for bread in times of need…

 

My love is lust that borders violence

I have a date with grave impatience

A sacrificial lamb borne on times ancient

 

A touch for taste her hands desire

A rush for paced her sex satires

A love for haste her heart requires

 

God, that stubborn gaze of hers

A thousand bruises, a thousand cures!

Her cosmic extravagance while I’m demure…

 

I approach with nothing left to say

My words engraved, infinite poetry

Your look is fixed—so cruel. Touché

 

Is there a lyric left to write?

Are you hysteric due to fright?

Are there no lovers to indict?

 

Casual cruelty is your forte

Jaded courtesans of various shades

Circle your body for days and days

 

Do you not know that I am human?

That I have hopes and grand delusions?

That I breathe smoke and ache perfusions?

 

Satans carve your face like razors

Beauty peeled away like vapors

Image-scarred mind without erasure

 

In a hundred years, when the dust is settled

When my dead body with gossip meddled

Is left a mystery for poets to peddle

 

The world will want to know you too

They’ll ask for red, I’ll give ’em blue

They’ll ask for me, but who the fuck are you?

 

Written by: Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to “Kitty”–for being yourself; that is, an enticing muse. In other words, fuck you, and I won’t dedicate shit to you–not this poem at least. Not now, not ever. 

 

The artwork featured in the blog banner is Vicente Romero’s. Please check out his paintings here: https://vicenteromero.wordpress.com

1

Love Is…

Love is a wrinkle formed by beautiful moments—moments that have been pushing and groaning—making its way across a portrait of an aging couple that still kisses on the mouth.

Love is the venerable arm holding steady a cane making its way down the we-have-been-here-before.

Love is the cracking movement of arthritic joints rushing to greet you; love is the pain that follows—the Tylenols, the Ibuprofens—taken on account of movement, movement directed towards you.

Love is the shaking fingers plucking guitar strings that no longer vibrate the way they should, leaving room only for silent sounds that remain unspoken, lyrics unheard but somehow understood.

Love is the eye that twinkles despite the tarnished wastelands that surround it.

Love is the continuation of a promise made decades ago when two humans thought they could love each other forever and ever and ever…

Love is a raspy voice arising from burnt out lungs that utters a name only you, the beloved, could understand.

Love is a tear quietly drawn out by gravity, flowing over valleys and valleys of wrinkles, of times well spent together—flowing, I may add, on account of you.

Love is a boisterous laugh filling rooms, hearts, and children’s souls with the joy that makes all life possible.

Love is the walk-along, the tag-along—that one person who treads alongside you.

Love is a collection of little and big footprints that appear to follow you wherever you go.

Love is the flu-like symptoms, the gifts of grace, you receive when caring for those you love—for you, too, were once cared for in sickness.

Love is the stoic face of a heartless man asking you for your forgiveness.

Love is the nine-to-five, the do-or-die, the cannot-call-in-sick, the overtime.

Love is the man who forgets his wife’s birthday only to remember their anniversary.

Love is the “thirty more minutes and I’ll have this essay done” said a million times over and over and over…

Love is the response, the “you’ve said that before.”

Love is the unapologetic acceptance of a human being whom you are honored to call your own.

Some say “love is patient” and that “love is kind.” It may be true. But I think love is the impatient, the now-or-never, the YOLO to your MOFO.

Love is the energetic drive of youth, the restless beating of a broken heart that’s going to get broken again and again and again…

Love is the magical, the I-will-fall-in-love, the you-just-watch-me.

Love is a box of chocolate truffles left for you in the most unromantic of places, half-eaten.

Love is the cocoons that became butterflies in your stomach that became first-kiss.

Love is the stupid thing that you got yourself into one summer night when you thought you were too cool for school.

Love is the palpitations you experienced, the noisy bleedings in your brain, the sweaty palms, when you laid eyes upon your beloved.

Love is what it was because it became what you never thought it would become.

Love is because love does.

 

Written by Moses Y. Mikheyev

Dedicated to “all of the people who have made love possible.”