Michael Vecchio (5 Poems)

A Mythical Bird

A mythical bird
said to breed
in winter
In a nest floating
on the sea

is more actual than sand
drifting distantly
over dunes
when darkness
builds a canopy

because belief removes
any doubt that wings
will be feathered full
and the glass they cover
fished through.

From ‘An Allegiance to Some’, Selected Poems, 2010-2013 



Somnambulistic Tendencies Near to the Hudson

1. The Adirondacks in the absence of chlorophyll
reveal a hidden visual fire
beneath which run
the origin waters of the Hudson.

2. The middle opens
like a flower desire
cannot answer.

Transparent leaves
folding over
permit light
into fingered reaches.

3. As can be imagined
rock walls
reveal many greenish-grays
leaving the impression of shoulders
leaning through collars of vegetation.

4. Waiting for the deer to spring
blindly from the dark
into the hidden mire
my metallic carriage hurls forward.

5. Once the way is clear
and the sun opens a corner’s
leaves to light
an anthem of petals springs up,
uniformly pivots.

Such reverence directs
near to the Hudson
instant vistas approaching.
In this manner,
the road is taken.

from Near to the Hudson, 2015



Here I Desire

Releasing all that crossing has brought you
Consider from which character stands
Consider even beneath
In the white space of bright light
Where there is hope
Where there are the corpse’s first words, ‘Here, I Desire’.

His words are like stick figures at a distance,
And at a greater distance like a picket fence
That promises enclosure, control, and still further,
only a white line on a black horizon.
The horizon that has eaten the sun from inside out
And that squinting as a face of leaf and stone
Brings its last blade to rest as an afterlife that is past time,
Chaos among friends.

Their play is a passing of the corpse from hand to hand
Drawing deeply from its emptiness
As nothing mindful. As nothing lovely, laced and mindful
Is passed on, is drawn through lips that curl
Is gaining character in these moments
Is squatting, quietly peeling its shell,
Preserving its skins as nothing beyond itself
As nothing that turns outward and mindless
And releases its face of leaf and stone.

from …overstated. the day dream, Serrano-Lantana Press, 1987



Long Rain Storm in May

Water drops
from the sky. Thoughts like them
from the mind.

So plain.
Obliged to root deeper, seeing.

I hope to listen
to the miniature spheres freed

caving into pavement
present. I am not

as certain as they
uncontrived, falling,
not hoped for.
Were they meteors
flooded rivers
forests burning…

they might be noticed more.
I am small. And there are layers to the rain.
One sings. Another sweeps up the rear.
A third unfolds the steady
familiar purr.
inquisitive children perhaps
are this
in their essence.

Falling open, reminding of delight.
Naked in these sounds coarsing
smoothly through allegiance.
The respite not found here

makes one say, “This, is pure.”
Beyond speculation, there is
what you do with your day.

There is the dream rather had.
The clash of dream
and practice.

These images
cleansing neatly
in the garden

are chambers of the heart,
notions of wings beating
tucked up in the trees.

They are resolutions conjured
from labor, thin, even to themselves,
barely measured, barely withstood.

These are the steady kettle drum
of rain pounding home
from the clouds. Now the dominant
timber flinches, lightens. Leaves

stand taller. Dreams reemerge. Allegiance
reasserts water already fallen, thunder
that is late.

As it masters the grasses,
bushes, trees I think
how deeply

they have rooted.
Perhaps, they become one
with thunder’s cymbals
cast into the roots of time.


These are easy pictures to conjure.
More difficult to capture.

As one’s own
anything is possible,

but out there

the airborne


wetted fabric

gathers life.

To deny this.
To complete the storm
this evening.
Make farewell
with song.

Earth’s fertility
Relaxes into the receiving-
so odd

she becomes something larger
than what is seen. What is
dreamed at the foot of simple rain.

Of time beyond
those rooms of deliberation
is origin.

How does one escape?
Become something immune
to pure falling?

Step up
shake the hand of history
salute death
as what informs the present.

How does one walk off
into brightness? Wire-like
knife of light,
the low rumble after.

The storms larger union
Of millions of points feeding
Believing themselves the gravity of prayer
The cousin of fate
Before entering the Earth.

Before heeding the root
that is jealous of growth
withheld in moments
I look up

in homage of these etchings
I look up
in reasons gleaned from rain
without dreaming, steadily
I look up
to the Earth
without hands,

meaning without me.

from Terra Firma (Anthology), Agave Noir Press., 2005



The Forecast of Henry David

The cathedral’s porch
Of warped, insecure boards
With the wind peeling
And an empty can
Alone In the crawl space
Make mystical claims, im-
Personal treaties
Between sin
And the abandoned celebration
Of spring.

From this remission
The promise of gain.

The long dead organ’s
Riot of water
And the trees
Heaving through
Their violent song
Of arms, swinging chains
And the rattled, unopened
Windows reflecting
Such generous
Fingered electricity
That the aroma of rain
Is exhaled from the earth
Toward the shield in blue.

This is his memory of disguise and revolt.
His yarn of love revealing a simple remorse
Snug in the brawl of truth.

This is his moment of submersion.
His defrocked pulse of departure
Combing through the field of simplicity
Entangling the two forever.

from Awakened in the Throw Space, 1997



When and Within

When, and within, a Corpus morning
the distance the bay becomes
allows a gray, vaporous cliff
of clouds to be seen,

and light

upon a screen

reflects petals upward

a .
permission is given.

A visual promise made.


a silvery unfolding –

A T-whistle blows through a bell. A tiny drum trembles.
A tanker slides toward the gulf. Gulls
That had been assembled take flight
in a rush give way
and tilt toward a foamy fmger
wrinkled along the coast.

A formation of pelicans glides toward the feeding glass.

The T-whistle blows again.
The sun makes a heavy entrance.
The tanker looks like a stick.
The gulls blend
into blue.

The pelicans draw a straight line across the water.
And the cliff, vaporous, still barely gray, begins to break apart,
and descend as fog, new and low to the water.

from Water’s Edge, 2003



Michael Vecchio has been writing poetry since about 1981. His work has been strongly influenced by early exposure to the modern poets, particularly those with a minimalist focus. He has a sustained interest in epistemology and what can be learned from the natural world. A few of his poems have made their way into publications over the years, mostly small and local. He currently resides with his wife, Dana, in the Hudson Highlands north of New York City.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Reblogged this on Daniel Paul Marshall and commented:
    Pleased to have Michael Vecchio’s poems up at Underfoot this week. Fluid poems packed with natural imagery, inquisitive & with a sense of attachment to place.

    If you’d like to be published by us, please see our submissions & read a few of the poets here to get a sense of what we want.

    Liked by 1 person

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