Michael Marsters has been writing since he was eight years old. He has lead a relatively mundane life, so his writing focuses on the smaller things, the things that tend to go unnoticed among the bigger and louder things of this world that demand our attention. He has studied human psychology and language in the belief that these two subjects hold the key to human potential and the betterment of society. He is planning on releasing a book of poetry in the summer.
…And We Sang
In that quiet nook, I brandished Nietzsche,
Stirred up the doubt of thoughts,
And was aware of little beyond the endeavors
of my own mind,
Only the standard bookstore ambiance
With its caffeinated mist hovering about,
Wandered out from the cafe facade
Ever situated in the corner of the modern
(and now indistinguishable to me
from the scent of pages).
I was thoroughly immersed,
In the hemisphere of my contemplation,
Walked straight through my attention,
First as a haze of small hostility
As a mother leading three contentious children,
She insisting upon the rhythm of civility,
Erudition in the pursuit of literature, a gift
but not for her kids
(it is someone’s birthday tomorrow,
and no, she will not have time
to do this later).
The children, however, insisted upon childhood,
A far different measure:
Boys, boys: sing to me of discovery
Not stacked, not sorted, but forded;
Wrangled, wrought, and wriggling;
On the underside of stone.
Little girl: though your fingers run
Across the titled spines arrayed,
You kick at the shelving there
With an energy that needs to run
Vain and free in the fields.
Oh, children: this place of congruity
Is not yours….
Yet here, upstanding conduct is a necessity,
And that woman must have possessed a dozen limbs
To gesture and lunge and grasp at so much
All the while clutching her de rigeur latte.
Still, she found herself outmatched
And only the even-tempered distribution of
threats to deprive
(they won’t be stopping later for ice cream
if this behavior continues)
Kept a semblance of order instilled in her brood.
Around them, the browsing went on,
The purchases continually rang out,
The doors opened and closed upon the waxing
And waning of the customer
And I looked from them, back to my book:
This precious volume of wandering words.
I began to read it again and somehow
The words meant more to me,
I had found their tune.
Copyright 2009 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.