Poetry by Michael John Wiese

The Lady of Shalott, by William A. Breakspeare (England) between 1872-1903

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Bury Me in White
 
Copper shards in Merlot 
Dense and deep and wealthy
Luna pries apart a pristine bower.

Crimson tears in hyssop and 
Splashed across mulberry.
Baby's breath grown in red clay.

Mother's milk to sickle cells and
Pools ripple with salty floes.
Miming screams with whispering echoes.

Joyful in the spring and 
Wonderful in the summer.
Awful in the autumn.
Terrible is the young winter.

Michael John Wiese
​

Starry Night, by Vincent Van Gogh (Netherlands) 1889

Someone Shot the Sun Today

It bled into the sky,
Bled bright red and pink, until the night was nigh.
So the sun thus murdered for yet another day,
The stars alight to move around and play.

Little eyes of different shades, staring through the night;
They twinkle and they wink at me with all their glowing might.
All the while I see some grow so weak and tired, 
They fall right from the very sky so bright and set afire.

But the time is what it is and no clock is really broken, 
And rosy fingered dawn is softly spoken.
 
So the tiny boiling lights seem to turn into a shimmer,
And all their winking eyes are suddenly much dimmer.
To the east the sky - caught a faint blue-gray,
Was it true? Could it be? A star for another day?
 
Birthing into the waters of a sky to be so blue,
Came in infant sun to start its life anew.
It laboured and it crowned and the sky became so bright.
The world was filled in every way and every dark made light.
 
Like the crime forgiven, and all the blood before,
The sun had rose in red and pink, with the new day it had bore.

Michael John Wiese

Saturn Devouring His Children, by Francisco Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

Goya's Republic
 
They say the Gods live
           up on the hill,

but it hadn't always 
           been so.

First, there was infanticide,
           Native Sons gone to grist and gristle,

until patricide reigned
           only to postpone the tyranny.

Then a capital hill rose
           to a mountain built on 

lighting and sea and
           the scent of death

Where the Gods still 
           devour the children of the poor

in their land. They are guilty too,
           but pretend they are not.

This time, abused Mother Gaia
          may not have the strength

to secret us away,
         us freshly children of her womb.

Michael John Wiese
​

Judith Slays Holofernes, by Caravaggio (Italy) 1599

​
​Judith's Confession
 
I love running fingers
through dark curly hair.
Seeing a long sharp nose and
strong square chin.

You look at me like an army to conquer
like I'm meek and mild, but I'm seething with malice.
 
Even while I dance, 
you're watching at my friend,
wondering at her basket, wanting to touch it,
rough it, pry it open, leave your mark upon it. 

If your gaze strays from my hips
the truth is in my eyes.
 
Instead, you underestimate me,
you undervalue us and you are mistaken.
Patriarchy meets the immovable object of the feminine.
I am silk in the evening. I am steel in the night.

I am creator and destroyer.
I am become Savior to my people.
 
Because your locks have lost their luster.
Your sparkling eyes turned silent and surprised,
unlike my nerves, alight with hope and heat,
as I steal through the darkness toward my own lamp.

I am liberator and deliverer.
I am warrior and an army will tremble in dawn's early light.

Michael John Wiese

Michael John Wiese is a writer and an inmate in Texas. While incarcerated, he has earned his Associate of Arts degree and is well on his way to a  Bachelor of Science in Interdisciplinary Studies. He writes stories, essays, and poetry. Many thanks to his writing mentor Barbara Martinsons for sharing his poetry on his behalf.