Integer

Pulsars sweeping through the sky,
I become the sun of distant system
far away wanting nothing more
than to warm your life.
Visible hadrons in the sky,
naked to the distant eye,
cannot see what hopes
and dreams locked
inside my heart.
Expand, I breathe deep
with cosmic lungs
the dust of stars,
inhale the swarm,
fragmentary like eclipsing
planets of the sun.
Light fractures into shards
and melts into thin clouds,
glowing, emanate, celestial
swans with twinkling eyes
and dazzling tongues.
Whispers sweep far,
swift into this space,
gregarious place
of mild chatter.
Hearth with heart,
deep warmth inside,
pulsing, beaming,
still alive.

 

“Integer” is written by Michael Aaron Casares, and originally appeared in his collection of poetry This Reality of Man. Buy it now. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

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Future Change, Present

A resolution is on the horizon.
A distant possibility sets permanent in reality.
The paranoid, the cynical, justified by the marred
truth and the absence of integrity associated with
the honor lost, crack their doors open. They sigh
deeply. They cry tears of disbelief. They were
right all along.

To pit man against man, to take the very essence
of living and strip away the conscience, is the malady
of promise. When given a soul, and given choice,
it expresses itself imperially; it goes forth and conquers;
it becomes a machine, a repetitious act that functions
without thought. It splices the genes of man. It is
homicidal. It is genocidal. It is suicidal. It seeks
the attention of the weak, and the presence
of the strong, to shrink away like a violet,
and cast its poison on us.

Chains.
Chains bedamned.
Lock and key.
Hoist away the plan,
cease all errant action.
Leave the fates of men alone.
Do not interfere with the spirit
of free will, it is not a choice to impede.
To betray the inner voice, to go against the tide
of will and understanding,
to give away the secrets of the universe,
the act of soul selling.
Don’t do it. Don’t get stuck
in the whirlpool of conscience,
a gravity thick, a crushing grip
of nothingness.
The masters of the universe
shall return again,
but their will to power
will not stand the tests
of time as it has before.

The indominable will of money men,
the malignancy of the host they consecrate,
the fashion of love they molest, redeem
bits and pieces, glimmers iridescent,
shards crystalline, magic cosmological,
quantum strings of nothingness
and everything. It is shattered before
them. It is hammered into pieces,
it is shown  to them like nostalgic images
rotating in the dreams of their memory,
when they dreamed, when they slept,
when they rejoiced in the world.
It is stripped their right of innocence,
and their right of immortality among the stars.
They will unbecome memories, and birth the
shadows of distant space, where it is cold
and black, and they can accost man no more.

 

“Future Change, Present” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

Check out Michael’s Patreon page at http://www.patreon.com/macasares

NEW CONTENT COMING SOON!

Force of Hand

Blank slate inside my arms
cannot force the ink out of my fingertips.
That black swirl, stream of threading darkness
will not recede or flood these plains. Twilight
dancing softly, flapping waves silk in black
cannot remember; doesn’t want to, would rather
erase all those mistakes. The lines shall not
wash over me, they shall not exit my nose,
enter my mouth, move seamlessly from pore
to pore, such grace is stripped of me.
Parched and dry, the cracked mud warns me
about personality, says I should be loose enough
to change, to fit inside its cracks, to ease out
all the blackness melting until rivers become
valleys between the chips of drying clay and
my body becomes like it, of more practical use;
and I am to accept when time to start again.

 

“Force of Hand” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

 

Dream For the Heart

I.
Crisp, easy breathing
The spring resides outside in
Calming spirits’ plights

II.
Farther is the sky
Feather clouds stretch high the blue
The light is shining

III.
The warming green glows
Heart enables it to grow
A hearth, home to all

 

“Dream for the Heart” is a haiku tryptic written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

 

Perennial Revolution

Paris is burning.
Four weeks, the fire spreads.
Violence erupts, gas billows red,
horns and lights, cacophony rings.
Buildings burn, cars smolder, ablaze,
the shoppes, vandalized and looted.

The police have removed their helmets
as the people attempt to remove their leaders;
they’d remove their heads as a testament
against treason.

The students are stepping out.
The protests spread wide.
Across several cities,
blood stains the streets.
Rebellion and aggression,
opposite energy on the same
spectrum of hate, fear inspires
some to act without question.

Waves of individuals
destroy property, attack
symbolic establishments;
tens and tens of thousands
wage war on modern imperialism,
a cloak of socialism and fascism:
globalism. 

The flags of nationalism wave.
They are a marking in time,
a memory in the body politic.
Black vests versus yellow jackets.
Bombs become explosions.
Violence among people,
properties destroyed,
difference from the media,
the events left unknown
to the ignorant world.

A living relic of their history,
the French will not just eat cake.
They will hurl it at their master.
They will remove the political cancer,
the head of the wart that sprouts on their body.
The fire will spread, no centralized location.
The fuel, a sparking fire for the love of culture,
country, and people, will trump the selfish
players’ immorality.

Freedom will ring
as the root is weeded out,
the debt slaves’ shackles removed,
the secrets of history shattered.
A depth of knowledge remembered,
a spirit of unity rekindled,
respect to fires of the soul,
the flame of truth, the world spreads over.

 

“Perennial Revolution” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

“Perennial Revolution” is an Ekphrastic poem modeled after world events: coverage and analysis of the France, Yellow Jacket Riots. Interesting enough, the original title of this poem was “Paris is Burning,” and was written during week four of the riots, but I wasn’t pleased with the draft. To that end, I fell back on the sonnet to relay the  idea I sought to portray, as all the sonnets do so far in The Root of Many Returns. But “Paris is Burning” the sonnet was written in week fifteen of the riots (that’s right! Fifteen weeks, and I still haven’t heard anything from local or national news that covers what’s going on! Insane!). So the title, “Perennial Revolution” came from inside the poem itself, in an earlier draft. The one shared with you today, is rough, but it’s much better than it was. I don’t dabble too much in the body politic in my works of poetry and writing, but in poetry, it definitely has a place. I hope you enjoyed. 

 

 

Night of the Deserters

The lies that filled the night,
a contingent thread of peace
through omission.
Fear, a revving tide,
consolidated the radicals
it insulated, and robbed
the atmosphere of
its own gravity.
A smirk hidden
at the back somewhere,
hidden deep beneath
a mess of coif and
minstrel lyres,
the eyes reveal
the true souls of
liars, and the
hated words that
work their way
like festering worms
through snow.
The turgid corpse
of latter years
expires beneath
the crate myrtles.
It conducts its business
on the daily, collects its
dues from the restless and
spacey. It runs rails of solid
fire down their throats
and blinds them behind
the humid fumes of
lost innocence. Their
eyes are half blind
and clouded like
the deepest frost
crosses over icy
windows.

 

 

“Night of the Deserters” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 

 

 

Paris Is Burning

Fourteen weeks long this tale has become,
fourteen weeks and at five weeks undone.
The violence shared upon them all,
a demand their governors heed their call.

A fire ignited in a break for gas,
a dystopic peace on the weekend clash
the yellow coats multitude against armored law.
To true peace and justice, an anchored pall.

In reverence marches chaos in history’s wake,
an example kept steadfast for independence sake;
to ensure the name and values of a nation’s import
are no longer a commodity for globalist export.

The French have kept Paris a burning light,
dozens of cities inspire the entire world to fight.

“Paris is Burning” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.