William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


More than anything, it seems I write in terms of surprise — that yesterday was not my last chance, or this morning, or an hour ago — that I am here at all — that I am still here, that I ever was here, without really knowing what here is, or why, or how. And it might well be that this condition, this outlook — this disease if you prefer — is what keeps me here — what keeps me waking and coming back for more, and what generates the friendly illusion of continuity that allows me to not trouble myself too deeply about the precariousness of it all. To know each day — each hour, each moment — that this life of mine is as good as done, and in this to be both right and wrong, is the ideal curse. It is a benison. Yes, it makes for a lot of repetition. But I prefer to call that style.

The frogs were out in force again yesterday evening, and didn’t seem to mind the cold. Or was that what they were on about? Keep me warm, keep me warm, keep me warm. Jazz frogs. Bass players. They know all the chords. Meet me at the sand bar. Meet me at the club.

February 4, 2020. Afternoon.


On warm summer nights
the little ones climb the walls —
they think they are frogs.

Then August comes
and the ditch runs wide.

Full of bugs,
frogs hop
across the lawn.

That old bearded one
looks like my grandfather,
but he jumps like
my son —

into the shadows,
where someone is singing.

Songs and Letters, May 4, 2008

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Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Songs and Letters

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