Like birds
they flew
beyond my sight,
summoned by
the ache of my
invisible winter,
where shivering trees
dream alone
in the childless night.
Fly, my dear ones,
sing your
beautiful songs,
dance brilliantly
to the tune
of the stars,
each of your names
are written in the
book of light.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I don’t;
Nor listen to a naughty joke—
I don’t.
They made it plain I must not wink
At pretty girls, or even think
About intoxicating drink—
I don’t.
To dance and flirt is very wrong—
I don’t.
Wild youths chase women, wine and song—
I don’t.
I kiss no girls, not even one—
I do not know how it is done—
You wouldn’t think I had much fun—
I DON’T.
Author Unknown
From “I Don’t,” Goldendale [Washington] Sentinel, October 24, 1918, page 1. (Cited here.)
I remember the
bright, sullen days,
when, familiar as blood,
he slipped effortlessly
through razor thin
blades of deceit.
They warned us,
young keepers
of the garden, but
as you might remember,
we refused their
preternatural gambit.
By summoning hiss
he conjured fears and
hot, sulfuric tears,
turning our
pyre of passion into
a smoldering disaster.
Then feigning injury
and taking sudden,
terrified leave,
the slithering seraph
fled beyond,
without us.
Until we meet again,
foe-friend,
may searing
eternal light
chase you far,
far away.
Michael James Fitzgerald
Well, I woke up this morning
about a quarter past yawn,
when I crawled outta bed
it was way before dawn.
Oh, I got them blues, yeah,
them late summer blues.
Let me tell you all about ’em,
the late summer blues.
I drove down to the store
and couldn’t believe my eyes.
From wall to wall there’s nuthin’
but back-to-school supplies.
Oh, I got them blues, yeah,
them late summer blues.
Let me tell you all about it,
my late summer blues.
No more picnics or parades,
we’re done with county fairs,
no more campfires or s’mores
or front porch rockin’ chairs.
Oh, do you got them blues,
them late summer blues?
I want to cry all about it,
them late summer blues.
All ya see is yellow buses
and geese flying south,
if someone says Halloween
gonna punch ’em in the mouth.
Yeah, I got them blues,
Yeah, them late summer blues.
I think they’re here to stay,
The late summer blues.
Michael James Fitzgerald
The present is
no slave to
the past.
It is the past.
This moment
does not invent
the future.
It is the future.
Preparing for the future
brings the future
into this very moment.
Reparations for the past
invites the past
into this moment.
The past need not
remain a disappointment
nor the future
a terror
when we gracefully
welcome as dear friends
the future and past
into this
ever-present,
miraculous
moment.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I saw you,
still and alone,
hidden in a
satin stream of
sun-polished water.
Shaped by
Infinite hands,
eons gleamed
off each purposed
moment.
With reluctant fury
you tumbled onward,
suddenly
out of reach,
but not
beyond the
invisible, lustrous
friendship
of earth
and sky.
Michael James Fitzgerald
I saw a small
equation written
on the blue
attic of heaven:
God multiplies,
demons divide.
Devil ever pries
mind from soul, but
as God is your sum,
you are indivisible.
Solve for infinity—
the world’s longest
story problem.
Michael James Fitzgerald
