Sage Rising

Sage Rising

By Michele Habel-Coffey


They will inherit the Homes

And The Farm

They will inherit jewels

And the wealth of generations,

Of Miners,

And Marauders,

Of Rosie’s rivets

And Cleopatra’s flight,

Of a Lion,

And a Lamb,

And the Artist’s left hand,

But dollars do not

Make a good cloth for washing

And love’s apple

Tastes better than apathy’s bible

Just so.

I am but a reflection of their light.

I am a smokey sage

carrying prayers to the Heavens

Bartering that for them,

Darkness be never more

than a canvas for the stars.


The Green Beneath the Grey: by Michele Habel-Coffey


The Green Beneath the Grey

By: Michele Habel-Coffey

She pulls inside of herself

The warm liquid in her veins drawing closer to her heart

The cold weather is closing in again

Temperatures drop

Leaves fall

All the while

As the jeweled stars

Float down


Ever down

From her reaching, dying arms

She is preparing to live again

After the passing of the cruel winter

And the glances of apathetic passerby

Gazing absently from glowing screens

From momentary glitches in lagging systems

From the nothing of their hypnotic state

She surrenders to the dying

Seen only by the dead

The ghosts among the glimmers

Of Heaven’s spirit

An autumn light

Circling the moving earth

A heart beats deep within

The green, beneath the grey.

Michele Habel-Coffey: Love Lies Bleeding


Love Lies Bleeding

By Michele Habel-Coffey

Amaranthus Caudatus for Algernon

For Charlie

And for my Grace

Loves lies bleeding

Dying in the cold

Dying on the headstone

Of the long gone

And seldom mourned

I am Alice

In Charlie’s backyard

Down the foxhole I go

In search of better flowers

Of Lotus

And Lilac

And a pill to make me big again

The white rabbit

Runs beside the mouse

His jaws clamped upon

The Eglantine

The mouse, tangled in



Remaining in between

The Rabbit

and poor Alice

Poor, poor me

I am ever chasing

Ever fading

A Cheshire grin

Left upon

An aching memory

Forget the pill

Give me a potion

I shall tread until I drown


By the wheel

And intoxicated

by the Wormwood




By Michele Habel-Coffey

Sights set

New surroundings at sunrise

A hiker emerges from a moldy tent

Time to traverse, time for

Trampling the delicate dew drops

And glistening grass

Wet soles

Wet soul

Running like the creek away

And to

A new path is born

And in the footfalls behind

The grass reaches and rises

Standing again

Leaving no trace

Of the wayward man




By: Michele Habel-Coffey

You linger

Like the scent of campfires on my clothes

I move in tandem with the wind

Around the burning circle

Just to drown in the smoke

Staying far enough away

Not to burn

My eyes water

But don’t cry

Provocation of tears

Comes now only

From wind and waves

Of white spirits passing through me

You surround me

I drink you, like coffee for breakfast

The welcome smell

Of my familiar, vaporous friend

Prismatic: By Michele Habel-Coffey



By: Michele Habel-Coffey

Transparent glass with angles

Pointed, dense and clear

Traditional triangles

Sometimes used as mirrors

Reflecting what’s internal

No colors bursting through

Just an image of yourself

Starring back at you

This requires angles

Of the steepest kind

The narrowest of options

For the narrowest of minds

Who only want to see themselves

Reflected in the glass

Instead of all the colors

That at better angles pass

Through the surface of the prism

Refractions of the light

Dispersions of the varied waves

Rainbows, spectrums, sight

There’s beauty in the colors

Much more than just plain white

But one must meet the other

At an angle that’s just right

To produce the dancing rainbow

For all the world to see

Takes more than just a piece of glass

Or varied energies

Conversations of the past

Call to mind a prism

Geometric and triangular

Common colloquialism

But rainbows don’t just come

From the shapes of yesterdays

It all about the angles

Dispersing light, refracting waves

Even tears can make a rainbow

As they’re falling to the ground

Pain calling forth a beauty

Without a single sound

I prefer refractions

And dancing colored rays

To self-absorbed amusement

Reflections showing age

Remember ole’ Narcissis?

Poor fool, you know he drowned?

In a shallow pool reflecting

The image of a clown

So if you want to see a rainbow

Stop gazing in the mirrors

At the hardest, steepest angles

As rigid as your fears

Bend a little, my dear friend

I promise you won’t break

But instead might see a rainbow

Put down the mirror, for Heaven’s sake!

Michele Habel-Coffey: Pictures of Volcanos

volcano in the clouds

Pictures of Volcanos

By: Michele Habel-Coffey

Sorrow in a stormy soul

Volcano in the clouds

A painted woman smiling

Next to a man, erect and proud

Molten, bubbling substance

Brewing just beneath

Her dress dancing with the wooden floor

And brushing at his feet

Like lava rising, reaching

Up caverns giving way

The woman’s pallor’s reddened

At a collar that is frayed

Hiding skin like porcelain

But not the blood that flows

Daring to color neck and cheek

Where passion’s secrets show

He’s gazing down, upon her head

But her eyes are on the man

Whose lens and light have captured

Silent storms and shifting sands

I turn and face Grandmother

Who wonders what keeps me

Longer than I should have been

Bringing her the tea

“Wasn’t I a song my child?

Dressed in tattered rags?

Such a scene so long ago

Oh how their tongues did wag!”

“Did you love him?”, I ask bravely,

“The man behind the lens?”

“No matter child. No matter.

I was married; he was kin.”

We stand a moment gazing

At the image on the wall

Though the mountain never boiled

There’s still an ash that falls

It covers what surrounds her

Like islands veiled in dust

The remnants of the nether

A long since buried lust

Its many years since Grandpa’s gone

Untimely was his death

Leaving her a widow young

Some years to her last breath

But each week she keeps her visits

Sometimes she’s gone for days

She returns with pictures of the places

That keep calling her away

Mr. Jones, he takes those pictures

Camera’s always ‘round his neck

When he calls for Grandma on those days

It’s the one thing I expect

There’s no pictures though, of Mr. Jones

Only Grandma, smiling bright

With colors in her porcelain cheeks

Reflections in her sight

Of the man that captures more

Than the images in her hands

He is movement on the richter scale

He is more than just her friend

From Mr. Jones, photographer

The man ever with no name

I see sometimes it’s the imagery

Holds more value than the frame.