Within the old film projector
found buried beneath the years,
a few revolutions remain,
moaning as it casts
paltry images of black and white
upon the portable screen,
enabling us to visit bygone days.
Rapt, we stare at the curdled frames
of lost memories, departed parents
and us, their offspring,
squinting at our younger selves,
we frolic under the glow of ancient lights,
carefree lunges beneath the sprinkler
that emanated from rusty faucets
attached a three-decker abode,
the summers unfaltering,
we gathered, smaller, more flexible,
clowning, our parents, so young,
no wrinkles, more hair,
all of us summoned for a group pose
by the off-screen director.
How silently time runs its course,
with strange peculiar hints,
if the changes are noted.
We yearn to climb back,
recapture innocence and joyfulness
the calm, silver light exudes.
Then it ends, the old reel flapping,
the brief nostalgic rekindling
has also run its course.
Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, has been published in numerous national and international journals, recently including Aji, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Muddy River Review, Passager and has appeared as feature writer in over twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations.