Justice Delayed

Green flash at the break of dawn,
the hope of the world released in song,
that radiance upon the darkness shine,
and truth amid deception find.

To strike a balance among the conscious minds,
the severance of rigor-mortise once strongly entwined
in coil of mortal perception, a vice of fear,
a sullen casque enforced both far and near.

Await the swift hand of justice as pass the rebellious pyre.
The hollow heroes’ dressed funerals, honor’s procession expired.
Only malice and cancer may merit the fire,
for it was faith and love that kept the consciousness higher.

A day shall arrive where memory provides the model,
and the children of treason shall no longer be coddled.


“Justice Delayed” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 




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Procession Winter (A Triptych of Haiku)

Remnants flutter down
Prickly, stale the earth and ground
Vitality lost


Frigid, cooling breath
Hollow sighs in heavens, haunt
Numbness plagues the heart

Leaves begin to furl
Squawking grackles line the trees
Death falls to the ground


“Procession Winter” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 



The Neighborhood Is Silent

The neighborhood is silent
against the raucous jeers
of abounding crowds.
Traffic rushes statically
on highways not far from here.
The wind rhapsodizes dreamily,
lulling the silent, sleeping street.
But the neighbors are watching,
I’m sure, as I carve an apple,
(its red skin sweating in the
pungent humidity).
I never speak to my neighbors.
We never barbecue, either.
We remain indoors, in our
closed circuit environments,
in our creature comfort habitats,
in our dens of solidarity.
The land has changed:
preference of security leaves
these remains, these dormant
people, silent and secluded
from extemporaneous movement.
Wheels on upturned bikes spin
like reels of family-time past
and the basketball, the children’s
games are completely forgotten.
The children are gone, locked behind
barred doors, or perhaps in their
basements, slaves to their senses:
eyes and tongue.
The neighbors are watching though.
I am sure as I smoke a cigarette
and scream a verse or two that they
huddle quietly, waiting to break free.


“The Neighborhood is Silent” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 


Crystalline Delirium

Day after thanks runs together like one.
Five days, four nights of questionable lust
clouded by the threat of retreat, or worse,
a social disease. Truth. I held him like a
lover. I loved him like forever, aware I’d not
see him for another few weeks. First time
in my bed, beneath the heavy liquids of rash
decision, the consequences and rewards are
days away. Uncompleted. Unity in souls is
never met. An exercise of tongues and
marvels, the deep breathing exploits
sensation with euphoric death.
Chemical nausea. Becoming in the end
the shrill of nerves that joyful sing.
Sunrises in a blink of an eye. The queens
gab on as the cold and the hot tug war.
The dead arise to work as consumption
has peaked for the year, and the fall reset
takes its leave; as gratitude gives way to reality
and the innocent are stricken as darkened love
plants sleep and doubt, and old ghosts begin
to dance without a care between the moon
and the sun.


“Crystalline Delirium” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 


Insufferably Didactic

She walked to the door, opened it,
greeted the salesman with bible in hand,
invited him in, offered coffee or hot cocoa.

He did not need evidence to believe;
she did not need to believe to have evidence
because it was there hidden in the books of man;
the ones the preachers refuted and called blasphemy.

”Do not believe in the works of man,” he’d been told,
“for their works are nothing compared to the Lord’s.”

What’s there is there before your eyes, even if you don’t
understand, she’d thought.

The mysteries of origin were becoming undone,
science was opening the doors of spirituality,
unmasking the face of god, showing man He
and at the same time Himself.

But the preachers could not have that, could not
turn over those stones, could not find God in the forest
or God in the trees, could not find God inside him or
inside she.

“We are energy,“ she said and meekly bowed her head

and slightly smiled

because she knew that when we were at an end, no matter what
faith we labeled this existential dream, we would be the same,
free from all this constructed dust animated and given names.
The only question was what experience we chose as we walked
our circles down the path and off the trail.


“Insufferably Didactic” is written by Michael Aaron Casares, and was originally published in his book This Reality of Man. All rights reserved.


Light Presence

A prophetic voice inside the crowd
has promised victory with pride aloud,
has brandished hatred in black and blue
and left vessels corrupted with this sickly hue.

The victims of warfare against the mind,
become soldiers of hatred marching haughtily blind.
They succumb to the songs of the deceiving dead,
an echoing repetition in circles said.

Steadfast, the virtue of light adorn the head,
and cast all lost in a sea of red,
and shatter the grip of the singing dead,
and shatter the hold of the lies they spread.

A heightened right, a sovereign call,
disperse the wave against the wall.


“Light Presence” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.