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Beginning with the end of Michael Shewmaker’s “Advent”

the martyrs and the marbled ground

falling, cracking, soaring, sound

reaching, hoping to be found

clinging to a strand of history,

children sit with faces bore

wondering when this aching chore

will end, but there’s more.

Saints are praised and prayers are given,

what have we to be forgiven?

The dead man’s story lives ever more on this holy hallowed marble floor.

Self Reflected, (at Grounds For Sculpture), 2017

— Michael Shewmaker, "Auras"

Michael Shewmaker: The Illusionist

Without the usual work of wands, she dazzles solely with her hands.

The coin behind your ear is gone. Her pocket watch has turned to stone.

She plucks the rose from her corsage, your ring tucked in its petaled cage.

She knows your card. She levitates. Her eyes flash like azure agates.

And though she makes a show of it— the scripted struggle, the long wait—

no locks or chains are sound enough to bind her to this stage. And though

you know the limits of the eye, her sleight-of-hand, the hidden lie,

you choose to see as through a sieve. You still applaud. You still believe.

#michael shewmaker