Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Oberon’s Garden

Oberon’s Garden

in nocturnal light, the fairies and the sprites
in fine peacock array—girls by night and
boys by day
the art of illusion guides their magic wand
illusion their boon companion
art mimics life in costumed fine array
life mimics are, girls by night and boys by day

at eventide we gather Oberon’s Garden breathes awake
as the celestial orb ascends the sky, her iridescent
gown lights the gilded stars
drawn across the nascent onyx sky in a chariot
of spider webs drawn by gilded butterflies
until dawn, her fire exhausted, she sinks into
morning’s oblivion;

and flee we must the Garden, whence the irate lord of heaven
master of the day, fiery glowing orb eloquent
and effulgent, bold as children’s lies
washes away morning’s sounds and dew
and fairies scatter and hide

but once evening blooms again into Oberon’s bower
they come softly stealing to this enchanted garden
softly hung with twinkling lights and o’rehung with vining flowers
the fairies pluck to weave their golden locks
or hair of raven lustrous cascades shimmering
in the perfumed hours, the comes
the fairy dwarf Oberon, diminutive but handsome to
the eye, bearer of great beauty, holding court with
nymphs and sprites
and such as I and other startled creatures of the night
roam and dance to music from Pan’s magic pipe

these lovely creatures, both boy and girl, art and
nature’s mystique and wondrous to the curious I
though I alone would walk among them
without fear of the unknowing but I remain
caught in their elfin kingdom
I delighting in their domain

though I would be, were I could, one of these glittered
magic sprites, the lovely fairies bejeweled with wings
and gilded crowns and gowns of endless array, who
sporting of an evening in Oberon’s garden, without
me they dance and sway

magic creatures of art and illusion haunt the
evening, inviting with gestures fey, invite me in
to witness bold and beautiful, their enchanted drama
all pure beauty of sound and sight
making music into the night, welcome into the garden
entry to all who ask, to those who so desire, to be
both boy and girl, to confound and delight, to confuse
to delight, to blur the lines that gender taunts, come
dance with us, come join the glee while under the
Luna e l’altra, the other moon, welcomes in
the curious, the other creatures of the night
and so they welcome me

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Raise Your Bibles, Hear Them Cry

Raise Your Bibles, Hear Them Cry

raise ye your bibles unto the sky and shout, in
the name of the Lord, proclaim words He never said
thoughts he never entertained, praised by purple-haired
televangelists praising money, money: send it in
raise those holy books, raise those holy bucks
hideous have you made this holy word, this word of
God and gods, even in the name of his son
if that is what you believe

get ye down from the pulpit–cease your derisions
cease the squall, cease the chaos of your hateful
muck and mire, your endless platitudes that rankle
your oversensitive sense of entitlement, though
bible-thumpers cannot see, see through to the
mystery of God, set adrift in blinded passion, seeking
some holy spirit, some place of peace and sanctity
some state of redemption where the soul is at
peace with the source, look then, look
die Augen zum Himmel erheben

were God to show himself, as once to Elias He did
Elijah, Yahweh is my God, who also raised the
dead, harbinger of the messiah, bringer of peace
prophet of a better world to come
will it?
Will it come that great and terrible day of the Lord?
as Moses before him high on the mountains in Sinai
bearing forth the tablets of righteous living, those simple
commandments, the heart of recovery, so simple we
cannot fathom living under their guidance

if Elias saw the countenance of God I do not know
to speak of what I know not, in ignorance, is far more a sin
more a blaspheme than to utter God’s name in vain
I have surrendered, or though I try, to relinquish my
hold on power and be graced with a little insight, to
be released from the grip of certainty that I alone rule the
world, and nothing be further from the truth, I am but
here, a moment, a flash in time, to shine through God’s eyes
shine back through me
was I given this gift to waste and squander?
to soapbox my life and words thrown upon the masses
with one desire to hate, to live my life unholy

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God Vows To Destroy Ireland The First Chance He Gets

we all need this laugh!

The Cretonia Times-Picayune

monty-python-god

PEARLY GATES, HEAVEN – (CT&P) – Sources close to Almighty God told Fox News today that the benevolent creator of the universe will devastate Ireland with a series of droughts, heat waves, earthquakes, tsunamis, and a major zombie outbreak “just as soon as he has the time to do so.”

The sources, who wished to remain anonymous lest the all-loving deity seek vengeance against them, said that God intended to punish Ireland for daring to treat all her citizens equally and allowing homosexuals to get married.

“He’s really pissed off,” said on source, “and he plans on killing hundreds of thousands of Irish men, women, and children indiscriminately and then later on sort out just who voted for marriage equality.”

asteroid Sources told Fox News that gay marriage would destroy America because an all-merciful God would hurl a gigantic scrotum at the geographic center of the continental United States, killing the…

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XQUIZIT

Thank you multiple times over Oscar. You just wrote that on me, for me and I’m beyond touched. I reblog this as a thanks, and with gratitude. xx Christopher

In So Many Words

.

Please visit Christopher at his revealing blog:XQUIZIT


.

Seven decades worth
Of trials and tribulations
On this spinning earth
Culminate into the musings
Of a gay man’s trip
And weary search to inhabit
Love’s elusive ship
With words almost too XQUIZIT

His hand painted work
Is a visual compliment
And you’ll find his quirk
Is prose for true love’s sentiment
At time’s he’ll simply
Reminisce a love that was not
Then he’ll write deeply
Of a time the world sadly forgot

Come and take a look
And follow him on this journey
Blogging in his nook
From sorrow to serenity
Exposing his heart
Semantics are a gambit
You’ll see from the start
What he has to share is XQUIZIT

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

in the mirror I do not see what I do not wish to see
the reality of that sight offends, my reflection exasperates, thus
I do not spend time, as Narcissus might, reviewing and regaling
in my image, my beauty does not lie in my reflection
kind sirs, it does not lie in your reflection either
the poet is not seer nor visionary, one supposed to see
through supernatural insight, to what the future holds
nor sibyl, that woman of ancient times, purported to
utter the oracles and prophecies of god

if mirrors lie, than I’ve been cursed with deceits, with
libelous spewings from my own reflection I fear
do not look in the mirror I chastise, those of a spiritual
bent claim it possible to gaze upon one’s reflection in
that silvered device and repeat, I love thee, I love thee
self, a concept as vacuous and repellent as a slimy
reptile crossing my flesh, a heinous thought, but it is
only my reflection not myself therein encircled, reflected
back what I stand before

make peace with the mirror, comb not your hair nor
shave your scruffy jowls, look not deeply into one’s own
eyes and admire one’s beauty, that fleeting sprite that comes
and fades, as it will, as it must, because beauty,
another name for vanity, which haunts those who posses
and ridicules those who wish its gifts
beauty does not last, no longer than the days it takes
the red red rose to bloom from bud to full figured
flower, to wither, die, its rusty red brown petals,
edges curled with decay, fall to the ground, no!
beauty is transitory and words, the art that beauty conveys
can, if acceded half a chance, last forever

gaze not upon your image, remove that vanity from your
heart, that obsession to possess some transitory fleeting
gift and think instead, of art who as beauty’s handmaiden
she who will outlast us one and all, she who reposes in
majesty, gilt-framed paintings where beauty, the goddess
of deceit can linger forever, untouched by time
or circumstance, though her images adapt as social graces
demand in this or that time fleeting moment, beauty is
but a wastrel, a thing of flesh and bone
only art can last forever

look not for your heart within that mercury-lined glass
you will not find yourself there, only Narcissus’ reflection
staring back, his efforts to ensnare and drag you deep with
his pool of replicated light, your death awaits staring into
forever, blindly as beauty wanes, with time and only
love and art remain

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Phoenix Rising

Phoenix Rising

in truth, there is naught here but silence, the
hooting of a morning owl, the chirp of birds, soon
departing the summer’s blistering heat for
cooler climes
the crash and bang of garbage trucks hoisting
heavy containers, returning them to rest with
thundering cacophony
do you want honesty? or do you want prose?
I’ve one or the other, offering you the choice
my head aches with compare and despair
as we all must at one time or another
succumbing to what I do is trash compared to rest of
the world’s victorious accomplishments
I’m nothing more than an unworthy, spewing forth the
words of my heart, never measuring up to the least
of denizens, words and art are but poor cousins to
corporate jobs and social butterflies, those I
envy from afar and without humility beg to
be better than, knowing words and art will
live on when they are but dust in their graves

bitterness has no place in the poet’s vocabulary
a useless, spiteful drink served with poisonous intent
when I compare my art to his good looks
his social standing, or her charms and devices
or their high-priced jobs in a world I’ve chosen
left well behind, to sit here morning after morning
in the cool pre-summer breeze and quiet, and
reflect, as a poet I strive to do, reflect on this
my gift to humanity, my release, my beauty
my inner self revealed to you for your perusal
perhaps, with sharpened knife and hateful
thrust, you shred me to pieces, though like the Phoenix
I write again and again, you cannot destroy
what god sends through me

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Echo

Echo

Echo, in Greek mythology, mountain nymph
darling of painters, friend of the great god Zeus
party to his amorous adventures
distracting his harridan wife Hera with her chatter
cursed by that viperous goddess, made unable to speak
except to repeat another’s last words

Echo, like I, fell in love with Narcissus, a man whose
beauty outshone the gilded stars and sent them squabbling
into the night, though she too rejected by his fair beauty
beauty none in all the land could compare
I know this well, speaking of beauty who taunts
dreams and restless in the night, screaming for slumber
unlike Echo, rejected in her amorous pursuit of mortal
beauty, this sweet narcissus flower to become,
I do not pine away with only my sweet silver voice remaining

Narcissus, unaware and haughty, lost in his own beauty
lost in his desire to enthrall
he cannot be possessed nor taken, reigning loftier
above we mortals,
to Echo’s pleas for love he became angry saying:
“hands off! I would rather die than you should have me!”
Echo, heart destroyed, left the woods a ruin,
oh! I have been there, have not we all?
Echo she ran to the mountains, yearning for a love
never could be returned, though unlike Echo,
whose grief killed her, I do not die in his wake
I do not turn invisible, bone and flesh turned to dust
For love of him, his eternal beauty unpossessed
Echo’s body became one with the mountain stone
all that remained her voice which replies in kind when
others speak, the final stroke of Hera’s curse

alas, poor Narcissus cried, and as he cried Echo replied
poor Narcissus did not move, nor did he eat or drink
but gazed longingly into the pool at his beauty fair
and suffered, pining away he became gaunt
his beauty lost, alas! poor Narcissus like Echo died
with grief his love, his reflection unpossessed
his body disappeared, where it once gazed a flower grew
nothing more than a flower, beware then vanity for
in its wake there’s little left but shallowness, though
the nymphs mourned his death, mourned Echo’s loss as well
Echo, only a voice that can repeat, mourned love
in repetitious voice

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

The Seer

The Seer

it is not my wont, nor would it be conceivable
to write of life in Elysian glades, traipsing with
fairies thru bough-laden vineyards
sheer nonsense in a time when outside my door
there is life palpitating, clamoring for attention
reality is best served head on
with traffic, pestilence, warfare and strife
poverty and ignorance abound in an era when
education is ripe for one and all, though
Arcadia is still strife with prejudicial thinking
my elysian glade, tormented by the roar of sirens
wailing into the night, rising costs of food and gas

poet: repository of worldly times, troubled or at peace
unlike the prophets of old he can only cut to the quick
cut through the chattering bullshit to the heart of life around him
though often he lives secluded from reality, often
denies the outside’s horrific chaos
art is not in regaling stories of war and hatred
crimes and petty grievances
no! cut to societies’ soul, shallow as it may be
yes! I fear it has all but withered and died
cut to that which lies under the surface and ponder
an eon hence will the story remain the same?

who gave the poet this gift? if one believes in god
then surely he must, or if not, is it the work of Lucifer
the spurned angel,
artists have been blessed with emotional insight
a multiheaded hydra, writhing in vipers but
blessed with a power to see beyond the pettiness
of human interaction into the human heart
the artists can paint or sculpt what is felt though
oft cannot express in words that quick
lightning strike cuts to the heart
the artist remains forever the spokesperson

rest assured, the poet is not a prophet, he has
no command from god to yell “repent,”
neither doomsday sayer, nor enchantress, that lies beyond
the poets realm, he doesn’t foretell the future, as though
future can be foretold, it changes with the rustling wind
or by accident makes its way along life’s highway,
oh no! the poet is not prophet, only one who wishes
with his gift, to see within the human heart
humbly offer a vision into the waiting eyes of the reader
should the reader choose to read

so the poet pauses, renewed in spirit, opening his
heart unto your mind, reader, opening his every
emotion to your critical stare and chancing that
you not tear this beauty, his vision apart

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