Imagine if
People mattered more than numbers.
If God hadn’t started counting His sheep.
Maybe we wouldn’t count ours in our sleep.
And when we wake from our slumber,
Keep counting on number after number.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5…
Taste, sound, touch, smell, sight…
On our 6th, at the end of the day,
We must depend, with all our might,
On something that is often just out of sight.
We must depend
On the good sense of knowing
That come what may
Their halos needn’t be constantly glowing
But their true colours should always be showing.
It isn’t His fault,
Or their fault,
Or mine.
We’ll blame it on the 1st, ewe,
That’ll suit us
Just fine!                                         michelle c. fecit 2011 
Imagine if
The Earth mattered more than dollar signs.
If together with Mother Earth
And through Father Time
Policy makers, princes & protagonists
Couldn’t claim
‘This land is mine, mine, all mine!!’
‘Haul in the bulldozers & the clammed kluffers,
The flame throwers, the slammers,
And the big blewphlooffers!’
In an astonishing silence
These demolishers
Are brought in
And the Forget-Me-Not
Is left in a nothing-corner
Through red, yellow & blue
To us
Mother Earth
Has remained true.
In Her we were planted
And from Her we grew.
But who would have
Ever knew?  That never
Would She receive
Sympathy from
Future’s sized sighs.
‘Give back to me
And forget-me-not’
She cries.
As Father Time
Gazes in His mirror
Through Him
And through us
The dollar sign
Grows dearer & dearer.
‘Time, may as well spend it.
Time, it may as well emit.’                                       michelle c. fecit 2011   
it’s high noon – storyboard p.1

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 it’s high noon   (michelle c. fecit  1990)

“It’s high noon and time for lunch”

Spoke Conformity,

Looking for something to eat

As he walked down the street.

When all of a sudden

He looked at his feet

And there were hundreds

Of peopled shadows

All keeping with his strided beat.

Contrary to the time and temper of the day

The shadows were long and melancholic.

Being tied to such real

Meant being bullied

They knew.

And Conformity

Poked them this way

And they

That way blew.

After pushed and shoved

And amongst them apologies said

The shadows were once again forgotten

In Conformity’s immediate head.

For during this while

He found his dinner

In the Sun

The all-round,

All-time spinner,

Spinning it’s warmth

For everyone.

Then Conformity

Stood tall and high

And plucked the Sun

Right from the sky.

In his contented darkness

Conformity sat

And ne’er could sense

Where his shadows

Were at.


Mother    (michelle c. fecit)


I do remember.

Those days I found myself

Suckling on your warm nipples.


And warm from the electric stove.


‘We need more milk

more nipples

more breasts!’

Crying like directors

Of an assembly line.

Demanding higher production rates

‘cause they themselves are being over-produced.

My memory, my past

Do the polaroids do it justice mother?

My memory, my past

Count on the future to be recognized.

And so do I.


Red’s secondary suicide    (michelle c. fecit  1990)




Lonely pigments of primal purity.

Red’s curiosity is peaked.

Dive red man into blue ocean’s depths.

Drown in a now sea of purple pain.

Barrel red man into yellow warm sun.

Burn in an orange ochre flame.

Yellow sun


Blue ocean cry

tears of pain


showers of rain.

Yellow sun

Warm the earth

With your heated angered emotion.

Together as you mourn

Are trees green leaves



box   (michelle c. fecit 1993)

it’s cold in here.

it’s really quite cold

in here.

ground fills any empty space.

surrounds my nostrils and face.

the ground is for nourishment

i am told.

it’s six, i think.

i think


i don’t announce it yet.

get the family all excited and ready

when even dinner isn’t.

it’s difficult

dinner is difficult

to prepare

with ground filling any space

between myself and somewhere over there

no room to spare.

it’s roast lamb in the oven.

it’s the garlic and thyme I smell.

i’ve never tasted thyme before this.

it’s here

that i taste it first.

it tastes

of spice

and a touch of something organic.

it fills my mouth

like the ground

fills this house.

ground fills any empty space.

surrounds my nostrils and face.

the ground is for nourishment

i restate

and with much hesitation

i take a taste.

for this taste

i needn’t move far

for the ground’s abundance

my mouth rests ajar.

it tastes

of thyme

and familiarity.

something I had been unaware of

but had linked up with

at infinity.

it’s almost ready.

The roast lamb

is almost ready.

it’s waiting i think

i think

it’s waiting for me

to realize that

it’s me

who waits.

it’s here

it’s beside my breast

that i feel something

to the left.

it’s my right hand

that i use to try and fish it out.

the ground is thick

and doesn’t allow for any quick movement.

it’s a heart.

i decide.

it’s beating.            it’s beating.

it’s here

that i feel it first.

it warms the hand

that pulled it out

and bastes it

in red blood.


if the lights weren’t out.

it’s the gravy

that gives the roast lamb flavour.

Now remove your elbows from the table

and let’s all join together

in giving thanks

to Christ Our Saviour.

it’s here

that i say it first.

it’s cold in here.

it’s really quite cold

in here.

but i’d like to give thanks

for this life amongst death.

i offer up my heart

and will take my last breath.

it’s me who’s not frightened

and it’s me who’d like to give thanks for this

sunken heightening.


forget me nots (michelle c. fecit 1990)

And forget-me-nots stood fast at the foot of her walls

Calling on minds to admire and remember.

Forget-me-nots pleaded in her dimmed halls

Hollering loud into future geared deafened ears.

“Give her herself and forget her not”, they cried

But never did they receive sympathy from Future’s sized sighs.

“Haul in the bulldozers and the clammed kluffers,

The flame throwers, the slammers and the big blewphlooffers!”

In an astonishing silence these demolishers were brought in

And the forget-me-nots were left in a nothing corner forgotten.


gabriel’s front door (michelle c. fecit   1991)

Gabriel sits at his front door

And his front door.


Waiting for another soul

To find on it’s map

The route pencilled in in blood

To his front door.


The people come

But these are not people.

They are frenzy.

Proud and pencilled gold.

Proud ‘cause they can tap a dance.

Proud to make others cry

With words as soothing

As a scouring pad.


Your house echoes

Of lost lights

Whose filaments are nearing their ends.

And of night lights

All baby bright with a youthful glow.

These have


Forgotten the maps

That sit

That sit in the unlit glove compartments in the cars

Glowing in neon blood

Of the route to your front door.

But those aren’t needed  anymore.

They want to stay.

To live in sunshine that is never switched off.


They sit

They sit in shy dead bull skins

In their glory.

And  these give up their lives

For the comfort of tired performing butts.

They say the neon light

Shines bright on Broadway.


Shine bright light.

Your gazers won’t mind.

They’ll give up their sight to bask.


Grandfather (michelle c. fecit 1990)


Give rest to your wearisome arms.

Put down your whizzes and chimes

And fizzes and charms

And gadgets of time.

For a moment

Lay your hands in mine.

Tick, Tock

Click, Clock


Keeps beat with

His silly old feet.

Tockkkkk          TiCK

CloCK Click


You seem awfully sick.

Minute in and

Minute out

His hands burn

His hands shout.

Somewhere there is

Surely a fire.

And in the school yard

A child yells

“My friend is

A liar!”

“It seems”,

Says Grandfather

Hardly keeping beat

With his foot,

“I am quite weary

And old”.

And in my hand he put

An hourglass

And a scythe of gold.


To move your arms in a circle,

A 360 degree curve.



To keep beat

And time, forever

Thinking of those you serve.

Of musicians

And the writers of rhyme.”

“And never

Watch your arms

Go round.


Your cousin who did

And went crackbrained?

And now as he works

Makes that silly

CuckOO Cuckoo    CUckoo



her idol man of none (michelle c. fecit   1990)

Profound in the studios of the mind.

By some Indian sign

She is gloved.

Made to sit and await

Her love.

Never in this way

Will she find.

In this humdrum

She is fashioned

By an abounding


Always that dreadful sound

Of nothing and no one.

Idle in her room of humdudgeon.

Her idol man of none.

These two indecipherable conundrums

Mazing together

As one.



let it dissolve thick (michelle c. fecit  1992 & 1997)

Let it dissolve thick

Into the Eastern air.

The whimper of a fresh mad dog.

Another with teeth that bare.

I can love you.

Is what was thought.

As the words were silenced

By something more

That was sought.

Upon the return

To that fair Far East

I encountered a soul

Which had conquered peace.

“It is your tandem self

That which you seek.



Return to your bridal lair

And share

In the Western feast.”


limp, loose head of lettuce (michelle c. fecit   1990)

How romantic

To die in his eyes.

And not have to prick a finger

To find yourself

Signing in blood

The name that was once yours

And is now the Devil’s.

For life would not accept completion

Before one



That’s only if

That’s what you want because

This moment is yours.


All i want is one


eternity to

Smell his warmth;

See his sounds forming shapes through the air;

Hear his hands;

Breathe his world;

Feel his knowledge;

Know his eyes.

i am ready now.

But if i should live without my knowing

i’d rather not.

i’d rather not live like a limp

Loose head of lettuce

That has gone forgotten

In the dank

Noisy hum

Of the refrigerator.


not sung for enjoyment (michelle c. fecit   1990)

Reality whispers harsh and strong.

“Listen to Conformity’s sweet song”:


I am in command.

Dictation and null

Are now the norm.

For Life is my living

And it is yours for the giving

To me.

Individuality has run away with the roses.

So shamefully shade your hands and noses.

Mirrored shall your faces be

So all I will see

Will be images of me!”

“No.  Give us ourselves.”

Drummed a different tongue.

Wanting to leave Conformity’s song unsung.

Then she wasn’t.

“One in a million

Was she.

None in a million

Will you be!”

Reality whispers harsh and strong:

“Conformity’s song

Is not sung for enjoyment.

Conformity’s song

Is sung for employment.”

c 1990 Michelle c fecit / all rights reserved