Category: Poetry

Ghosts Muse and Count All of Autumn’s Crisp Leaves

Mystical wraiths blow their chilled breath at eaves Reminding us all that summer has passed, This icy notice into our soul cleaves; With a certain cruel punishing blast. Gunmetal bare trees quiver in their wake, First frost will soon cover all with a gleam, Crystal grace will blanket flora and lake; Whispering to all, “Go to sleep and dream.” Children laughing roll in umber … Read More Ghosts Muse and Count All of Autumn’s Crisp Leaves


The moon hides its face draped in billowed veil behind earth’s curvature, silent stars sigh, unseen midnight winds whisper. Copyright Michael J. Donnelly

Aurora’s Gleam: an epic poem

I. A Legend is Born “A warrior’s worst enemy is fear Giving great credence to knowing one’s foe, Keeping a sharp eye with equal keen ear Means the difference tween glory and woe.&… Source: Aurora’s Gleam: an epic poem


My ceaseless spirit is derived, From divine essence I was born, For countless lifetimes I have thrived; Many fleshly vessels I’ve worn. Fantastic knowledge I have gleaned, I’ve seen all history firsthand, With kings and queens I have convened, I’ve walked through garden and wasteland. Through distant galaxies I’ll stroll, For all eternity I’ll roam Past quasars pulsing and black hole; There’ll be no … Read More Wayfarer

It’s Elementary Really (a particle physics haiku)

Baryon, Meson they both like to carryon
 with their good chum, Quark. © Michael Joseph Donnelly 2016

Jameson’s Gold Label

Jameson’s gold label is what I sip
 When relaxing at the end of my day, It is precious nectar, worth every drip, Pure magnificence, the best I dare say. 
 The way it shines like sunlight liquefied
 Brings a smile as I dispense two fingers, 
 And in focused manner most dignified; 
 This perfection on my tongue, it lingers. 

 Deeply breathing in … Read More Jameson’s Gold Label

Heartbreak At Last Call

A bartender listens with false concern As a jukebox and jilted young man cry, “Yeah, sometimes truth can be hard to discern Even though it looks you dead in the eye. ” “When the heart takes over then it’s too late, You’re committed, like you’ve jumped from a plane, You hope for the best, but it’s up to fate, As all these thoughts start … Read More Heartbreak At Last Call

Like Wind, I Know Not From Where the Words Start

Many years ago, a strong hunger stirred Like romance in young hearts, I was smitten, I was deeply drawn to arranging word, By the poetic bug I was bitten. At first I did struggle with temper high! Frustrated because I just could not grasp, At times I would cry, ‘why can’t I, God why?’ And so I prayed, and my hands I did clasp. … Read More Like Wind, I Know Not From Where the Words Start

Love Is a Flame Burning Long In the Dark.

The tenderness we share is wholly true, 
 Nowise have the years sullied how I feel
 Despite the trials that we have been through, 
 I yet possess that original zeal. There are many things that money can buy, 
 Worthless belongings that soon fade away
 But priceless is love twinkling in an eye, 
 As well, said love, which will never betray. I … Read More Love Is a Flame Burning Long In the Dark.

The Deathbed Confession

The monitor chirped an eerie refrain, Echoing through the dim hospital room, There was a morphine drip to dull the pain Of an impending insidious doom. An elderly man tried to stay awake Desperately wanting to cling to life, In his hand he held a precious keepsake; Rosary beads from his now long dead wife. He contemplated his life full of sin As he … Read More The Deathbed Confession

Between Golden Poppy Dawns And Rose Blushed Sunsets

I will interpret runes of my soul in worsted wool, curling the ends of bristled grayed mustache, I will fight the ache of bones and blur of ravaged corneas to spite years. Wrinkles will feel like canyons and lesser ravines as tears slide, trickling to corners of my mouth, salty taste will tease my dry lips, muse will whisper, “let us write.” Between stanzas, … Read More Between Golden Poppy Dawns And Rose Blushed Sunsets

The Old Poet In The Park

In a city park, an elderly man in a navy blue worsted wool coat and scarf, breathed a warm breath into winter air as he sat motionless on a bench. With silvery hair and thick eyebrows, he lo… Source: The Old Poet In The Park