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

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

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

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:

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



“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. 


Midnight Clouds

Mercy Street forlorn in the morning clouds.
The eyes heavy in retreat, eclipse its own vision,
iris shaking, pupil fat. The fog clings low to the
ground, the feigned winter breeze of an ill-fit
New Year and Holiday Season, all but elements
and figments of a present now passed.

Random auditory notes, celestial to organic
ooze softly through the dim blue, the prism
cast even through the multicolor Christmas
tree that stands proudly, defiant of the cycle
consumerism has set. Another buzz on the
silenced phone reminds of the artificial means
of contact: perpetuated, advanced, and liberating,
but also enslaving.

Days have passed with but a blink in time
to rest. The blackness usurps fastidiously,
a deep vacuum one hears as life vanishes
down the funnel. Falling apart. Piecing
into bits, a shred in time, a shred of time,
elapsed into a memory, the spectrum
disintegrates as static, a multicolor fuzz
established in the night. A waft of fog
streamlined like a feather, but hazy like
cotton, fills the empty space of ground,
and we the people have receded. We have
shriveled into our shells and tents. We
have succumbed to the very nature of the
beast. That is to say, our spirits are filled
with goodwill, and the actors’ pernicious
glare, stares only at the jugular.

Flesh on flesh rubs raw, hours into  love making.
The unnatural cause of a ludicrous effect, the winds
of Jupiter could not stop it. It would seal it in a glass
bowl of constant paranoia and awareness of every
move. The silent creep around the corner has eyes
one only seen at night, and the steps so carefully placed
are chosen to strike cords of discontentment as clash
decision and discernment. Faith within the huddled
space, the flames and torches light the way. The incense
waft precarious, sanctifies the base. Allows those lost
in light, the lovers late and lazy, the lonesome and the
loathsome, the legion watching many, to emote a ranc
sulpheric steam. The garbage, manure, rotten and
deceased to plague the pristine strands of fair incense,
storm clouds on the horizon. A quiet flash, a sexual pulse,
discretion is out the door. A hum electric in the veins a fizz
and pop, a clearing of the sitting soul, a buzz that rides the
very bone, opens eyes into the inner core, rewrites the brain
the mind now wired to the world. 


“Midnight Clouds” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 


COMING SOON: The Vanishing Poet, a collection by Michael Aaron Casares.