TWO MILES FROM A ROAD
Mike Faran

I touched a horse once
a long time ago in Oregon

Touched its quiet brown
neck

Felt its pulse
vibrating like a machine
from the factory where

I worked.  I worked my hand
to the part from which
it ate

It sucked my fingers in the
way friends do
in a drunken sleep

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I NEED TO LIVE BY WATER
Mike Faran

Preferably a lake with croaking
bullfrogs,
the whistle of wings from
low-flying mallards at night      

There is a measure of comfort in
such things

The moon is closer,
its sleek swirling reflection only
steps away

And the stars more plentiful if
possible

And there’s always the other side
where fishermen cast in the
yellow dawn for bass and
bluegill,

not knowing my fear of drowning
when the moon
has risen and I no longer have
stars to climb

But I need to live by water and
death – should it occur –
would be baptismal  

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POEM WITHOUT GRANDCHILDREN
Mike Faran

I had wanted
to spend more time alive than
dead

to feed the hungry &
to pull out quills from small
animals

Not to be here
drinking in a barroom on a
Wednesday afternoon  -

a place without a dance floor,
a place without a soul

I had wanted to slay dragons,
to protect the innocent,

to be admired by
blue-eyed grandchildren in the
light of day

I had wanted to inspire & be
inspired  -
to behold the next silent star

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Mike Faran lived in Ventura, CA. as a retired factory worker. He is the author of We Go To A Fire (Penury Press) and his work has appeared in The Midwest Quarterly, Coal City Review, Atlanta Review, The Listening Eye, and others. He has been twice nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Mike passed away at the end of December in 2017.