The Appeal

My biggest dream seems to be an unreal appeal:

If I could shoulder the bolder of world disorder,

Compress the distress into a wall as mortar

Press down the brown goop that sticks and grips

Onto our people, our nation, of which an unbalanced ration

Are starving, swaying, undoubtedly paying

For lack of green, like money or land- more like sand

Sifting or drifting through fingers of calloused palaces

Known as the human body but these temples are shoddy

From dirty streets, not fit for elites with silky sheets.

As a class en masse, safe from harass and lambastes,

We must lift, shift, lend and tend to our fellow man

Who feel hollow and harrow imbued with sorrow

Not to mention hunger which growls like thunder

Bursting in their belly, cursing that Hell should be

Their only world. From ours they've been hurled

And left bereft of a beautiful life. There's nothing but strife.

I'd give a limb if I could fill to the brim a infinite pot

With coins, bills- the whole lot and offer grandeur to the poor

People who are people, part of us like the steeple of a church.

Let the world lurch into a rhythm of humanitarianism

And feel the real appeal of this dream so extreme.  

© Mikal Minarich

Ethereal Enchanter

Lovely, slender foxglove rendered so sweet

From your swelling bells come two tiny feet

Curled like the strings of hanging green beans

With Lilliputian boots weaved with grass roots.

Within the dewy petals, a little person lies,

Tired from her work that's more than half her size!

A twinkling of a bell marks her itsy-bisty yawn

As the light creeps in with the breaking of the dawn.

Up now, make haste, there's no time for delay

You must get started, you're only a teeny fay!

Encourage the sleepy forest to stretch it's creaky limbs,

To blossom in every corner, and make steadfast all their stems.

Unfold the timid petals, melt the stubborn frost,

Sing to the budding gardenia, there's no time to be lost!

Rustle up the leaves from the hollyhocks' bed,

Bring back the birds of paradise that from the winter fled!

Suck up the infant bloodroot from the stiff, cold soil,

Enliven the pretty irises without any toil!

Paint the dismal forest with the colors of the earth,

Dainty little enchanter, secret of ancient Peairt.


© Mikal Minarich

A Ghost of a Memory

On January ninth, my good friend Zachary Jasper committed suicide. There is no way to sugar-coat it because at the end of the day, he is at the end of that body of water fifty paces in front of me. When I look out, I see the scenery in sepia, with only a verdant grass to add a hint of color. To the left is a gnarled tree about three feet tall desperately gripping a slight slope with its tendrilous roots. A few stones speckle the slope around the roots and some of the grass to the right. Ugly, dead bushes that had once flourished with foliage now suffer the abuse of a inclement wind. This wind disturbs the serenity of the water's smooth surface which now laps aggressively on the land. One mighty gush from the back forces me to take a step forward for balance, and I find that I have a kind of momentum that encourages me on. It isn't everyday that I come to this place, nor do I come on the anniversary of Zach's departure; in fact, I have never been here in my life. I just happened to stop by when I saw the peculiar tree slanting over two large tire tracks. It's branches creates a sort of nebula of twisted, lifeless clouds with an illusion of a smokey edge due to the concentration of smaller branches that seem to fade out of the tree like dust. When I got out of the car, in sheer fascination of the grotesque tree, I was struck with the weighty memory of what had happened two years ago on this very day. Immediately I thought of the distance between Zach and myself and stood frozen with a disgusting feeling of having lost something invaluable. Following this feeling came the stark reality of death, the utter eternity of it, and the powerlessness us humans are destined to struggle with when faced by such an opponent.

The Little Devil

It was much too quiet. The green light on the monitor was steady, but I had just laid the baby to sleep so I wasn't expecting to hear him crying. It was the two year old. She never napped, and she usually announced her arrival by clumsy steps which would stamp rather than walk. When she did walk she muttered nonsense to herself, but when she ran with a quick thud-thud-thud of size 2 shoes, she always shouted. Her laces are always untied of course. It's a miracle she's never in the hospital with some sort of mild concussion, but just as I was thinking that, the house became uncomfortably silent. I feared she had fallen somewhere and I didn't know where she was. I felt my suspicions rise, followed by worry and panic. I yelled for her. No answer. I looked behind doors and under beds. No child. I yelled once more and was answered by the baby's cry over the monitor, but the two year old was my priority. As often happens when one is apprehensive, I began to think the worst. She had fallen down stairs, or she had discovered how to open the front door, or was the door to the pool locked? I looked everywhere and no two year old. Then, stopping me abruptly in my tracks, was the little girl's full-on stare. 

What Little Remains

Eerie is the absence of people in the presence of dead houses. Mournfully dead houses that once were alive and had once sheltered a handful of families now lie wasting and overgrown with tall grass in the deserted village. Large, crumbling stones attempt to maintain a shelter-like formation but yield unwillingly to the unjust cycles of time. These stones have been heaved from the bowls of the native soil for the purpose of human survival, but now they resemble jagged, shattered teeth protruding from the ground. Long blades of grass sprout out from within the bedroom, kitchen, and fireplace. Sheep wonder aimlessly in and out of the village, weaving through the hills speckled with ruined homes. Famine had chased out the men, women, and children from the quaint village, consuming any lingering life source that may have prevailed, then spitefully regurgitating the damaged debris onto the green of Achill Island. The warmth of numbers in families has been replaced by the drafty winds that blow through the cracks in the mortar of which sturdy stones have been plucked. Windows where neighbors once leaned into to shout a morning greeting have dissolved into massive gaps in the wall. There are no thatched roofs to withstand the rain. Such meager frame work hardly passes as a soup bowl for muddy puddles. But despite the ghost of abandonment, and despite the haunting allurement of tragedy, there is something most bizarre about the nostalgic feeling experienced by the people of today who have never known the comfort of the detached stones. Here, in the deserted village, a touch of human existence has come and gone, leaving behind pieces of their humble abodes to be gawked at by their successors. Though primitive, a connection between our world-- their past world, can be made through the useless stones scattered upon the ragged grass. The stones that were, at some time, carried, placed, and admired by the past generations are now only touched by ours, but through the stone, an ancient hand touches one of our own. A trace of life still swarms around the village, deserted as it is, even after its submission to the inclement weather. Nevertheless, man has passed through the village, and man has passed out, but the remains of the human touch will be forever lodged within the stones of the dead homes on Achill Island. 


© Mikal Minarich

Virgie: A Woman and Her Pride

Of course, I am no fool. There was a certain thrill and mystery to the whole situation that tickled me pink, but in all honesty, it was Mick's handsome smile that did all the convincing. Something about that smug smirk of his always got under my skin, but it was too playful to hold against him. It was all for a bit of fun. It always was. I remember in the lingering light of dusk, Mick came up to me with shovel over shoulder, his overalls covered with fresh Oklahoma soil, and dirt smudges plastered on his face with sweat. He was quite an admirable man and an even more loving brother. But perhaps the trick he pulled on me may lead you to believe otherwise. That smug grin was working overtime the day he had been concocting a plan to scare the living daylights out me. Roy wasn't too far behind him in distance or mischief. I remember Mick's voice clearer than day as it issued forth from his silhouetted body swaggering off the fields, his back to the falling sun.