William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Archive for February 2019

First Kiss

This has been a winter of books, and the kind of simple earthly pleasures that are priceless and free — a winter of clouds and ice and sun, of forest paths and waterfalls, of vanilla pages and chamomile grass and moss — a winter of Blake, Thoreau, and Don Quixote, of diaries and letters, and of all that lasts beyond its past and lights the present tense. And it’s not […]

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For Bugs and Birds and Words and Lovers

Over the years, I’ve written a great many because poems — because I am alive, because I feel like it, because I have no idea what else I would, could, or should be doing with the moment at hand. “For Bugs and Birds and Words and Lovers” is one of them. But in light of this unnecessary confession, it seems pretty obvious that they all are.   For Bugs and […]

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Still Farming

Still Farming

As an old farmer of the written word, I know that in my deepest cultivation I’m really just scratching the surface, and that the strange crops I bring forth, the cactus and the flower, are food of brief duration, and that when I’m gone, the land I care for and hold dear will be safe harbor for my feeble literary bones. Once, many years ago, while we were engaged in […]

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Discovery

Above rooftops and trees, between clouds, there is a familiar collection of stars and planets — a small gathering of faithful friends, inspiring and nonjudgmental. And yet how many millions of miles and years are between them? And what of the space between us? Surely, it is imagined.   Discovery Late one night, when he was very old, they found the great astronomer holding a ruler at arm’s length, measuring […]

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Stars Are Eyes and Minds Are Mirrors

It should be clear by these pages that I lead a very simple, quiet life. For what do I write about, really, other than this little place I occupy, and the steps I take daily to traverse it? And yet, this little place is part of a much bigger place, and the bigger place is part of limitless space. And limitless space — who knows that it might not be […]

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Syllables

What are the great questions? And if I were asked them one by one, what would be my answer? Life, death, God, love, philosophy, religion, good, evil, war — would it merely be a recycled version of what others have said, a hearsay ego-bath arrived at second-hand, or would I offer something entirely new and of the moment, a revelation of an exploration without expectation, ever free in flight with […]

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Canvas 358 — February 11, 2011

Canvas 358 — February 11, 2011

 

Starry Night

Dear old face,
lined deep to harbor cookie crumbs.

All the mice and men
who’ve held you,

forgotten,

every
one.

Poems, Slightly Used, February 27, 2011


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Canvas 358 — Starry Night

Day of the Dead

Twenty-six-degrees, and a walk through the frozen neighborhood before sunrise — an exhilarating way to start the day. I was careful, of course, to pick up my feet, ice being what it is, and bones being what they are. On the snowy parts, where cars had not been, the crunch of my footsteps was loud enough to wake the dead, if they were not awake already.   Day of the […]

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Clouds

There are mornings when the mind has no particular need or desire for clarity. Or it might not be the mind at all; it might be the world that has no need or desire to show herself — as if she’s just out of the bath, her skin fragrant and naked and warm, and in no hurry to put on the day. How foolish the mind would be to say, […]

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