Magazine
About the Author: Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
About the Author: Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
ex
is said with such ease, such nonchalance
when what’s meant is the once beloved
the once esteemed once revered
before the universe decided to test the bond
and the bond failed, before the tear, the rip
sometimes terse, often sustained
regardless, the ex, a two-letter word
packed tight like a small, thick scar
long after the slash
.
About the Author: Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
Sunday Mourning
Real butter for a change, melts on my toast
with apricot jam thickly spread like I like it.
Cold, caloried cream swirls in freshly brewed coffee
with a teaspoon of real sugar.
Habits die hard; having just cooked an omelette
for two now only one will eat.
Glasses slide low on the bridge of my nose;
Sunday paper ready to go.
The pool’s blue tiles glisten under
the early sunshine.
What a glorious morning
this could have been.
.
.
About the Author:Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
Out of the Blue
Out of the blue, I hear your rustling in the back
of my frontal lobe among the cellular boxes,
caved-in and heavy with sediment.
When I pull the yellowed, frail strings
leading to you, covers are nudged open
and you appear.
Forty years have worn down your features like
pebbles in a stream; past passions are now
but faint, electrical pulses, barely registering.
But, in this commotion, a crumpled neuron nearby
opens releasing apparitions of you and me standing
over a spot in our favorite park,
searching for the golden snake ring I had thrown
into some bushes after a jealous fit over a once-
sharp reason, now too pointless to recall.
But it is not really you and me; it is aged molecules
that oscillate into a semblance of our shapes
and then shift back to forgetfulness.
As quickly as these stirrings of recollection had come
to life, they fade; the dust of the past settles
back down, like lazy snow.
I will hold on to your shadow
but you, you are now forty
light-years away.
.
.
.
More By Mike Acker:
The Selfie
Holding it right is half the challenge.
The other is not to shake before the click.
They say that the aim may change due to
the pressure applied by the finger.
To think that in the old days they had to
handle the powder directly to produce
the explosion, which, of course, also
gave the flash. The modern version
is so much easier; just aim and shoot.
The only question is: the temple, or the mouth.
As It Ought To Be 
