Mark J. Mitchell – Five Poems

Sonnet

For Joanie

Come always back to me. Warm your cool hands
against my aging skin. Let fingers seek
soft targets that call back our lovely years.
Dream lightly. Let colored visions appear
with all the places and times when we’d sneak
away from parties, exploring young lands
our bodies offered. The moon shows your smile
to me. I know what it means. Your youthful wiles
prowling their way to me. I’ll pull you near
again and always and, wherever here
is, we love. New. Old. In quieter now
we each count the other’s breaths. That’s our vow
renewing itself each night. We left fear
so long ago. Come always back. Come here.

Mozart at Play

The eight staffs
rule the page
in groups of two.

The boy stares first
in the fire, then the paper,
finally, the piano.

He won’t touch it.
He’ll wave his quill high
making all the notes

dance on their own
whiles keys and tempi
choose their places.

Racing the Music

He owned his vocation. She prayed for none,
rushing away like an underaged nun.

She watched notes float off. She always chased
them like duty. She sang and hit only none.

He circled his office and wore his work day
on his back. A schoolboy praying to ghost nuns.

Her kitchen hid sounds she wanted to play
for pleasing him. She dropped notes at sext and nones.

Evenings fell, red in black. He said he’d stay,
scaring her scars. One more runaway nun.

Summer moons waxed her heart and when they waned
her tears fell on sand, shaping small clay nuns.

He sported tight collars; she twisted loose shapes.
They made check-marks for work, for play, for none.

After Her Return

For Joanie

Her soul cups your soul. You’re holding
dark curtains wide. A breeze passes
through her to you, light as kisses.
You know she’ll be safe through morning.

Curtains blow wide. A passing breeze
teases her awake. She turns your way.
All storms are past, but what you knew
once is less firm. You deepen your kisses

yours to her, hers to you. Light kisses,
soft as breeze and treasured as time
which slips past a bit quicker now.
Your hands try to catch it. You fail.

She’s sure you’ll be safe through morning.
You hold careful breaths, feeling hers
in your bones. Pull her light to you.
Let your soul cup hers through always.

Souvenirs

When you live without snow, curved glass
walls of your snow-globe home hide worlds
from you. You see snapshots of bent pasts
without snow. Your life is curved. Glass
is your shield and mirror. All the last
things you recall float outside, swirl
like snow that you live without. Glass
curved walls shape your snow globe home-world.

*

In Chinatown, cats in glass wave
you away, Shiny, cheap gold paint
reflects rare sun. You think they pray
for you. Chinatown’s in glass. Waves
of tourists push you along. They
can’t read Chinese prices. Painted
by hand. Gold cats behind glass wave
you off. Their tails shine. Fur, not paint.

Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for 50 years. His latest collection is Something To Be.. A novel, A Book of Lost Songs was recently published by Histria and a new poetry chapbook, Ground This Morning came out recently from Sabre Lake Publishing He’s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco where he points out pretty things.
He can be found on Bluesky @MJMitchellwriter