Poetry Blog by Michael Kwack

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Michael Kwack on Putting Out the Lamp (Tue, 22 Sep 2020 02:07 pm)

Michael Kwack on Putting Out the Lamp (Tue, 22 Sep 2020 01:21 pm)

Shifa Maqba on Putting Out the Lamp (Fri, 18 Sep 2020 02:56 am)

Michael Kwack on sad dreams (Sun, 26 Jul 2020 03:42 pm)

Shifa Maqba on sad dreams (Sun, 26 Jul 2020 03:02 pm)

Michael Kwack on Arrows of Rain (Sat, 27 Jun 2020 05:28 pm)

Paul Sayer on Arrows of Rain (Sat, 27 Jun 2020 03:59 pm)

Michael Kwack on Arrows of Rain (Sat, 27 Jun 2020 03:52 pm)

Paul Sayer on Arrows of Rain (Sat, 27 Jun 2020 01:15 pm)

Michael Kwack on Rain and Balloon (Tue, 16 Jun 2020 04:17 pm)

Putting Out the Lamp

Putting Out the Lamp


In the dusk of early evening, one day,

I awakened from a belated nap,

And came to find nobody back home yet,

Only the wall-lamp flickering away.


I, the child, quickly getting quailed,

Started to run away from the dark haunted place,

But soon stopped for looking backward

For some reasons I couldn't quite understand.


Probably it was the ...

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sad dreams

was it true,

sleep depends on tears?


to refill the well

that had dried up by day,


or to wet the lids, at least,

by dreaming sad dreams,


with that tearful hope,

had the sleep come by night?


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A Pilot's Joke

A Pilot's Joke



I used to love sand,

For, where there's only sand,

I need not land​.

When I accidently had to land,

I did land

On the sand;


For there was no land

​Anywhere on that land,

But only sand

All thru that land.

I now more love sand

Of this lonely land;

For, for there's only sand,

No men would come to land.​

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To Summer

What springs up in spring

Will all fall in the next fall;

Summer sums all we have,

Saying we are rich,

Not having to worry where to winter.

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The Birth of Octave

Dominoes are hanging, like 88 wind-chimes, inside a

Record shop window;  whereinto an old Irish priest, once a dreamer of becoming

Michelangelo, or Liszt the virtuoso, today called

'Father Manyon,'  is peeping;  recalling the scented

Solitary pine, on the hillside of his home town; whereunder he used to recite

La Belle Dame sans Merci, often wishing to

See the pale sighing face o...

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From the Garden of Afternoon

Leisurely and alone,

I was wandering in a palace garden.

Flowers were completely gone,

But deep green

Summer leaves were fully grown,

And on each branch

Small birds were all the way chirping:

Seemingly for me a perfect afternoon

To be lost in poem-reciting!

Suddenly a wind arose,

When a human voice came to my ear,

Saying low yet rather vivid:


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Arrows of Rain

To hang on a wall of my empty room,

I think I will need a picture of rain.


Hitting the ground, and springing up to ankles,

Rain wets the socks and trousers from below.


My eyes chase along

Roof-edges, streets, sidewalks,


--tick, tick, tick--


Checking all, one by one,

To find a dark brolly,


And a woman in black enamel shoes,

Lightly treading the...

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The Poor Little Dove

The Poor Little Dove


To watch the wind play with the wave,

I sat on a bench by the museum garden pond.


Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landing to her feet, tiny and cute,


And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, with no other move.


She looked like a baby as a camera model,

Getting me to recall my infanthood picture.


I took s...

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An afternoon's letter

A word,



in secret;


A name,





A woman,





The transparent 





​on her 

thin fingers.


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Rain and Balloon

Rain-drops are laughing,      



Like blossoms                      

Of cherry trees,                    

Or snowflakes,


Onto the garden                   


I am alone                             

Floating on,


A ...

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