© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
(#379)
my life
bereft of kin and ken
December trees
…..
(#380)
a whisper of hope
just enough
to tear me to pieces
…..
(#381)
these heavy skies
and the burdens they carry
dove’s cries
…..
(#382)
expectant hush
beginnings and endings
we yearn for both
…..
(#383)
don’t ask of my heart
there are dark places therein
even I fear to tread
…..
(#384)
a journey
of a thousand lies begins with
“I love you”
Hey, folks. My poem “I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia” is now available at LatinosUSA. Much gratitude to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this piece. Sincerely appreciated, Michelle.
“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia”
© 2023 by Michael L. Utley
“I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that bleak and melancholy land
beyond the god-forsaken desert sand
far ‘cross the sea of memories
where sunlight fades and none has e’er returned…”
You can read the rest of my poem here:
I hope you’ll consider following and subscribing to LatinosUSA–a place of unique visions and creative voices from around the world.
Just a note to let you know Gobblers by Masticadores has published my poem titled “Anchor.” Thanks to editor Manuela Timofte for her kindness in sharing this piece with all of you.
“Anchor”
© 2022 by Michael L. Utley
“she sat there
9,000 miles away
on the edge of her bed
or the ledge of her building
I never knew which
and talked about anchors
and the black depths
of depression
and what it would feel like
to fly…”
You can read the rest of my poem here:
Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.
Greetings, friends. My poem “My Life Reads Like a Suicide Note” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. I’m so thankful to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this unusually dark and intense poem. Much gratitude to you, Michelle, for being willing to share writing that deals with difficult subjects. We all have voices that need to be heard.
“My Life Reads Like a Suicide Note”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
“my old man died alone
on a busted sofa
on a September farm
in the middle
of nowhere
with a gut full of
prescription drugs
and a poorly scrawled note
left on the kitchen table
“something went wrong
in my head”
it said
he checked out
without tipping
the bellboy
the cheap fuck
remorseless
to the end
and in his
final act
on planet earth
he also killed
me…”
You can read the rest of my poem here:
Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.
Greetings, folks. Gobblers by Masticadores has published the latest installment of my short haiku/senryu collections titled “A Few Haiku (21).” These small collections consist of six haiku and/or senryu. Much appreciation goes to editor Manuela Timofte for her kindness in sharing these little ones with her readers. I hope you like them.
“A Few Haiku (21)”
© 2021 by Michael L. Utley
(#121)
old rain barrel
dark waters of
forgotten dreams
…..
(#122)
first snow
white kiku on
autumn’s casket
…..
(#123)
stone cairns
mark my future; stone heart
marks my past
You can read the rest of this mini-collection here:
Also, don’t forget to follow and subscribe to Gobblers by Masticadores, where you’ll find some wonderful writing and plenty of food for thought.
Hello, everyone. My new short creative nonfiction story titled “The Graves of Saint Paul” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. I’m truly grateful to editor Michelle Navajas for sharing this piece with her readers at Hotel. It’s a bit of an anomaly for me as I generally write poetry exclusively. Back in my younger days (prior to giving up writing for twenty years out of frustration), prose was my vehicle for expressing myself, and although none of my fictional pieces from my early years found a home at a publishing house, they still hold meaning for me. It was a thrill to actually complete a short story again after thirty-three years, and I hope this is only the beginning and that more will come. This piece is based on elements of fact, with a bit of creative license included. Thanks a bunch, Michelle, for this opportunity.
“The Graves of Saint Paul”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
“My mother lay in the ground at my feet beneath sun-bleached summer grass and faded plastic flowers and a headstone I hadn’t seen for nearly ten years. Her name, Victoria, clung to the gray stone above a bas-relief of pines and wild flowers and blue birds. She’d asked for a cross on her headstone—made it clear to everyone that she desired her faith to be front and center after she died—but my father, in his infinite malice and pettiness, had chosen some random wilderness picture rather than honor her wish. Just one more reason I hated him.
And now, his name sullied my mother’s headstone.
Ten years. Ten years of shame and regret. I hadn’t visited my mother since the headstone was erected shortly after her burial. For months after her death, I made excuses to avoid the trip to town, to the cemetery. At first, it was too raw, too soon. Maybe in a few weeks, a month or two, then I could do it. And then my life flipped upside-down again and I relocated out-of-state unexpectedly and that felt like a more legitimate reason, but I always intended to visit her grave like a good son should. Except…except maybe I wasn’t such a good son after all…”
You can read the rest of my story here:
Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.
Hey, friends. I’d like to let you know my poem “How Swift the Stream” is now live at Hotel by Masticadores. Many thanks to editor Michelle Navajas for publishing this poem. It’s an honor and a delight, Michelle.
“How Swift the Stream”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
“as gloaming eventide stalks dying light
to ambuscade the remnants of the day
diurnal requiems give way to night
how quick the gloom
eviscerates its prey
regretful skiffs of shame contuse the dusk
as shadows skulking on earth’s wretched rind
asphyxiate its palpitating husk
how cruel the dark
and all it renders blind…”
You can read the rest of my poem here:
Also, please consider following and subscribing to Hotel by Masticadores, where you’ll discover a world of wonderfully imaginative and profound writing.
“Wildfire”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
nothing in life occurs
as it does in the
lyrics of songs
it’s all fantasy
all make-believe
carefully orchestrated
a plastic tableau
displayed behind
a plate glass window
look but don’t touch
lest the illusion shatter
her eyes were still open
when I entered the room
her body slowly
giving up its heat
the world had gone silent
save for my father’s
ragged exhalations
a blasted look
in his eyes
panic
dread
the weight of
heaven and hell
threatening to
crush him
there are protocols
for this sort of thing
my mind mumbled dully
lists upon lists
procedures to follow
and don’t skip anything
lest the facade crumble
lest all of creation
come to an end
I watched my hand
touch her wrist
warmth but nothing else
and a door in my mind
swung soundlessly
irrevocably shut
a box checked
I felt my hand
squeeze hers
no response
another box
another check mark
a window in my mind
battened
boarded up
permanently
and her eyes
dazed
tired
confused
staring into her
own private eternity
I tried to brush them
closed
like some celluloid hero
like someone who’s in charge
but they remained exposed
stubbornly resisting
my mind sputtered
clicked
observed
registered
a checkbox left empty
with only one remaining
I pulled the sheet over
my mother’s face
the final act
the list complete
my duty accomplished
my fate sealed
and my mind collapsed
I stood at my
bedroom window
as a misting rain
enfolded the earth
in a hushed dirge
a six a.m. requiem
an epilogue
to a life betrayed
a life cheated
my mother deserved
so much better
and the world
refused to move
its gears stripped
its dynamo fried
as the dawn
held its breath
the ghosts arrived
strangers in
bleak uniforms
muffled voices
latex gloves
clipboards
a gurney
uncanny inhabitants
of some other dimension
performing their
own obscure rituals
drifting room to room
in and out
covert thieves
stealing my mother
and still the rain fell
in my mind
a mantra arose
unbidden
urgent
inexorable
straining against
my temples
my eyeballs
my ears
my mother is dead
over
and over
and over
listen closely
the universe said
listen as you’ve
never listened before
because your life
your sanity
depend upon
this
one
thing
acceptance
now
or risk losing
yourself
forever
the words
pooled
eddied
in my head
swam like
mystical koi
gliding
in arcane murk
and I knelt
at water’s edge
gazing into this
saturnine mere
where my reflection died
and hope dissolved
and I drank
from cupped hands
and choked on
the bitter draught
of reality
and still the rain fell
there are woods
we dare not enter
treelines with teeth
green shadows
with poisonous
beckoning tendrils
restless copses of
voiceless supplication
leading us astray
from the path
numbness
timelessness
and nameless
plutonian pits
of despair
and despite
foreboding warnings
despite all that
screamed
to the contrary
I fled into this
grove of oblivion
where the darkness
promised succor
but instead
stripped me naked
gutted me
flung my entrails
among noxious thickets
and abandoned me
in a clearing
beneath an
eternally
moonless night
eldritch stars overhead
representing
obscene unknown
constellations
another place
another cosmos
another time
eyeless
voiceless
nothing left
of me
but my ears
damned by
deafness
weak
useless
my mother’s voice
no longer audible
her frequency
terminated
a static hum
where her
essence
should be
but I listened
anyway
strained to discern
her closing thoughts
her last whisper
her soul departing
but the only
sounds I heard
were the howl
of white noise
and the
wretched screech
of infinity
another mantra arose
this time a song
from years before
my mind a
musician’s mind
an artist’s mind
always seeking
the flow
the deep
slow currents
the steady stasis
of movement
the only balm
for my soul
a song of death
of sorrow
of loss
of seeking that
which can
never be found
my mother
lost in a June blizzard
chasing Wildfire
and still the rain fell
the sky cried
in my stead
my own tears
locked away
deep inside
far beyond my own
pathetic reach
the incense of
petrichor
and wet sage
lingering
settling upon
my skin
a patina of
unexpected
serenity
a cocoon
of protection
against a
reckless
arbitrary
God
an indifferent
heaven
the senselessness
of it all
weeks passed
but the song remained
and I clung to it
with all my might
I grabbed its reins
dug in my spurs
and rode it out
for all it was worth
for only it could save me
only it could deliver me
from the blackness
of that forest of torment
I said good-bye
to my mother on a
sweltering June day
my broken heart
buried with her
the burden
of her absence
carried with me
for a decade now
I kissed her forehead
gave her my parting gifts
three guitar picks
I love you, Mom
inscribed on each
and asked her
to wait for me
and when the
early snow falls
I shall chase
Wildfire
too
(Author’s note: This poem is inspired by “Wildfire,” a song by Michael Martin Murphey that helped me deal with my mother’s death in June 2015.)
“Bus Stop”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
she stood there
stoic and still
as a river rock cairn
at the crossroads
bus stop
every afternoon
alone
save for her
reluctant shadow
that always seemed
to pull away from her
clawing at the gravel
to unpin itself from this
dirty-faced girl
with willow whip arms
and a mangled knot
of corn silk hair
she stood there
by my grandfather’s
mailbox with the
shot-up targets
and broken beer bottles
glinting dully
in the weeds of the
four o’clock sun like
dusty brown cataracts
and waited for someone
who never arrived
staring soundlessly as the
folding school bus door
juddered shut
and exhaust fumes
enfolded her
in a hydrocarbon miasma
she stood there
in her too-big
ratty plaid jumper
of indeterminate hue
and mismatched sneakers
and scab-caked knees
rooted to the ground
like some obscure totem
some miniature monolith
weather-worn
eroded
her features smoothed
by the passage of eons
at this nowhere bus stop
somewhere east
of benignancy
paused between
moments
stranded between
the dots of the ellipsis…
she stood there
as we piled off the bus
each day
a mass of larval humanity
gummed together
in sweaty profusion
and exquisite ignorance
and ran past her
down red dirt roads
that sliced through
cheat grass and junipers
sage and pines
kicking up dust
in our manic wakes
a mindless stampede
of vacuous hubris
and nascent dark desires
our souls’ eyes shuttered
against grace and mercy
our young hearts
already blackened
by vainglory
we perceived her
incuriously
in our periphery
discerned her
absently
incidentally
our puerile minds
negating her
ripping her brusquely
from the cloth of our
reality
she stood there
waiting
as the cracks
in the world
began to show
arrivals
departures
childhood’s horrors
comings and goings
day and night
week after month
after year
after generation
and I recalled her
vaguely
a tenuous mirage on the
distant silver horizon
of youth
and my children
and their children
spoke cryptically
of the uncanny silent girl
at the bus stop
until her novelty wore off
and she disappeared
from their collective consciousness
as their own childhoods
unwound in a chaotic blur
and the cracks widened
and deepened
and the world spun slowly
to a stop
she stood there
stoic and still
as a river rock cairn
in the withering gloaming
at the end of time
where no bus
had stopped
for millennia
where the damned
no longer
gamboled and
cavorted
where sepulchral silence
clung shroud-like
to the bones
of the earth
waiting for
someone
no one
anyone
and I approached her
my back bent with age
my gait halting
my old man’s eyes
dim and rheumy
my breath a rasping wheeze
and she looked at me
with pallid marbled eyes
and I recognized her
at last
and I sensed
the world sigh
and I took her
cold, ashen hand
as the final
sunset faded
and I waited
with her
“My Life Reads Like a Suicide Note”
© 2025 by Michael L. Utley
my old man died alone
on a busted sofa
on a September farm
in the middle
of nowhere
with a gut full of
prescription drugs
and a poorly scrawled note
left on the kitchen table
“something went wrong
in my head”
it said
he checked out
without tipping
the bellboy
the cheap fuck
remorseless
to the end
and in his
final act
on planet earth
he also killed
me
closure
wasn’t in
his 10th grade
drop-out
vocabulary
neither were
compassion
decency
empathy
love
his lexicon
was one of
unfettered cruelty
willful ignorance
narcissistic dominance
bigotry
hate
violence
closure?
there is no closure
when the bad guys
get away with murder
and speed outta town
at midnight
in black-windowed
coupes with fat tires
and skulls painted
on the hoods
glasspacks roaring
tearing the world
to pieces
there is no closure
when the deceased
can’t sleep
and bones rattle
restlessly
in coffins
and closets
and all
you can see
on the insides
of your eyelids
is the haggard face
of a seven-year-old kid
staring back
at you
so tell me
do you know
what it’s like
to be a ghost?
to lurk in
sunless corners
among dust motes
and spider webs
and choke
on the cloying darkness
that surrounds you
permeates you
to see horrors but
never be seen
to know fey secrets
that should
never be known
to hear with
deafened ears
silent whisperings
best left unheard
do you?
I’ve been gone
a long time
my father’s
smudged and bloody
fingerprints
all over
my cheap headstone
the desiccated yellow turf
of my plot
beaten to dust
beneath his
boot prints
isn’t it funny
how the dead persist?
you’d almost think
he mourned my passing
if it weren’t for his
soft laughter that
sounds more like
the cries of jackals
sometimes
in the wan hours
when the world
is asleep
and all is quiet
I push through
the sod
and float
on night breezes
navigating by
starlight and
moonbeams
among the
crooked marble crosses
and faded plastic flowers
of lost souls
and settle down
on cold dewy grass
and reach out
tentatively
toward my headstone
and weep
for that seven-year-old kid
who never had a chance
that child who died
and was reincarnated
as his mother’s protector
his father’s enemy
his fate written
in the blood
of the wound
he inflicted on his
father’s forehead
the scar that remained
until the old man
killed himself
alone
on a busted sofa
on a September farm
in the middle of
nowhere
Silent Pariah 