Vento Destino, shell against sea

Le Parche, nella mitologia romana
Vento destino, fierce winds of fate

Drove him, Venice to Catanzaro
La Roccelletta di Borgia in springtime

Bella, bella. To be where Eliana had walked

He had never left everything behind before
But she was gone. Cosa ci riserva il destino? 
Nothing was left. But to keep going

He spoke of this journey as affari, business
But he knew better. So did everyone else

Amico di un amico, he spoke reservedly
To an avvocato femmina at the other end

In return, she spoke as if she was snow or ice
Crisp and cold. Asking how Eliana’s famiglia knew him
And how it had been Eliana’s last wish to find him
To bequeath to him a gift to be received di persona

Naturalmente, ovviamente, he’d said from somewhere
In a strange land. Unable to breathe. Unable to speak

Sleeping in his car on a roadside, tossing as the sea
He¬†heard Eliana’s young happy whisper in his ear

I asked the¬†winds to send you to me…

But not this way. Never like this.

© 2013 S. Michaels
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Seven Love Stories – Ilario & Eliana

The Weight of Water, venice grand canal

It was always a game for him
A quick study, a survivor
Mastering the art of escape
In his city it was easy to wear masks
At carnival, as a Venetian knight
Letting crushing crowds sweep in
Chasing shadows. Leaping gondolas
Racing across the Piazzetta
Refusing to be taken out of life
He promised himself. One thing.
To love. Not hate. To believe.

And then he found her.

A scampi of a girl. Smiling.
About his age. Wide toothy grin.
Long bronzed hair pulled back
Selling spiky pink blooms in the sun
She spoke of distant country hills
And gathering exotic armfuls
Of antoniettas, cardoni,
irises, lilies, and sunchokes

He invented things. To impress.
Cover up. She listened. Nodded.
Followed him home. Crouching outside
A silent interlocutor, praying as he fell
Blows crashing.¬†His papa’s bottle. Striking.
Making him take the blame for his mama
Dying.¬†Because she’d given¬†him his life
Ilario’s¬†guilt solid as steel armour. Taking it.
The girl always wanting to let him know
She cared. But fearing if she did. He’d break.
For she understood the weight of water
Encroaching on the foundations daily
A strange destiny. Bound by tears.

It was only long after his papa died
That Ilario awoke. La vita bene
Owned up to mistakes. Held onto dreams.
Took nothing for granted. Learned to laugh
His Ristorante Impressario overflowing
Crowds rushing in and out as tides
He held it close, like a baby. Seldom left.
But when he did, sipping a Brio
At night, staring towards the lagoon
He thought about her. His girl.
Saw her take his hand long ago
Making him run like the wind.

© 2013 S. Michaels
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Seven Love Stories – Ilario & Eliana

Running Past Midnight

Night sirens wailing. Steely skies
City at his beck and call. No bodyguard
Racing the moon. Running past midnight

Best-selling Author Disappears!

He could already see headlines
And his publisher. Blinking. Fuming
Andrew, you’re killing me!
You want to ruin me, or what?
(Like he was the guy going down)
As ‘The Writer’¬† writes himself out of life

Back [home]. Sanity restored. Not home
An airless balcony. Above Central Park.

No words. Nothing to say. No words. Nothing to write.

Another sultry, empty night. Too perfect smiles.
Flirtations. Another dead end party. A grand escape
Too much. He was completely done with small talk

Thin as pond-ice in springtime

As Ma used to say of them huffy folks
Ages ago an’ way ‘back when’. He missed her
Humble pie kinda days. Out of reach now
Kind of like Karra. Life always got back to her
No shortage of re-runs. Or late shows
Infotainment. Tired him. So he ran

Late news junkie. And then, Karra.  On a 10 sec. news clip
Impossible. Some kind of  miracle finding her this way
Waiting at the ends of the earth. As if offering a last chance

Grabbing a cab at 2 a.m. La Guardia to Seoul
Decided to let things fall. Tumble where they would.
Let her know he was drifting. Without her. Something
Anything. No. It would have to be the truth

She’d expect it.¬†Tell her you love her,¬†he insisted
Writing to himself. Strange habit. Getting words down

Running again. Past midnight.

© 2013 S. Michaels
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Seven Love Stories – Andrew & Karra

Kwang-Sun’s Train


‘Imports-Exports’, Karra Sun, CEO
Prim. She sat with hands held stiffly

Took out her card. Tucked it away.
Reversible paper. Pop-up sun.
Worlds away. Another life.

On a train from Gijang-gun Busan
Headed for the seacoast at sunrise.
Envisioning stars flying far & distant
Washed out by NYC lights.¬†Andrew’s¬†eyes.
Blazing. Burning through crushing crowds.
Signing books. Sporting another best-seller.
Perhaps searching for her. Riding a money-train.

Life was here, with a gold sun spilling over hills
Where she was not Karra, but Kwang-Sun.

light & goodness…a destiny¬†yet to fulfill
(the boy’s name given by her parents
commemorating a son they’d lost)
Her name had given her a certain courage

It was not enough, she believed. Never.
Not courageous to hide away lost in love.

Too little time. In truth, nothing came easy.
No trades were too risky for a freedom fighter.
Rescuing defectors from the north. Not always.
She had lost five. Washed away at sea a week ago.

So you see, my dearest Andrew.
I¬†must take a different train than you…

But she had recently relented. Penned a note.
A quick inky passion, posted to a rural box number.
Somewhere in the USA. Mid-west of nowhere.
It seemed to her Andrew’s life¬†was lost.
Held prisoner by the pages of his books.

© 2013 S. Michaels
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Seven Love Stories – Andrew & Karra

The Letterbox

Transitions troubled him
Too many unfinished chapters
Half-bright, half-cloudy days
Puerile. Playing guessing games
Setting hours adrift as boats
Or bobbing back in from town
Along a forgotten dirt road
He braked the pickup truck
Letting dust settle, a ritual pause
Dull letterboxes lined up
Rusty. Yawning. Unexpectant.
Grimacing, he always searched
For her envelope. Plain white.
And Karra’s trademark wave
The insolent splash of indigo ink
That would set worlds aright
Nothing. Sifting flyers and bills
Tossing them on the empty seat
No sign of 18 Weatherstone Way
Framed in a silver gilt of tiny roses
Bees buzzing. He rolled up the window
Knowing. There were people who’d trade
Give anything. To have his life.
A novelist. With his cherished typewriter
Encirled by the boxwood grove. No cell phone.
Stubbornly plunking away. At life.
Searching for missing words
As if he could reinvent things
Like love. Or bring Karra back.

©2012 S. Michaels
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Seven Love Stories ‚Äď Andrew and Karra