“Artemus unfinished”
He calls, at last,
confirming he is still alive
and also my other intuitions.
“I think I’m dying.”
“Yeah?” is all I can say,
with a rise at the end that sounds like a question
But it is not.
A single syllable inflected as if he had just said
“I ended up choosing the green bike.”
But instead saying
“I’m here.” and
“Do you think so?” and
“I’m not surprised,” and
“Do go on…” and
“I love you.”
He will be maddening to the end.
And I want him only to know
he has acquitted himself nobly
run a good race,
skirting a godless steeple chase
for a holy sojourn among the lepers.

“Poetry is…”
I live by a gap
I know is not really there, yet
I cannot of my own will close.

Poetry is the bridge.

I drop down into the bones
touch the deep stream
the most real I know
the womb where prayer
is heard before it is born
And I find myself flying
between the motes of personal humus
in a wholly Holy and hole-less
firmament of humanness
where no one is alone.

Poetry is that mystery.

About Michou Landon’s Poetry
Translating between realms has been a vocation of mine. Wordplay was long a means of doing so; and poetry became a more formal tool in the late 90s, a tool for deep listening and communing with WHAT IS and my unique relationship with it, often making that relationship a more consciously holy one.