William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Among the Living

Early morning. Cloudy. Quiet. Owl acoustics. Most birds don’t mind singing in the wind. But owls prefer a hushed auditorium. Dimmed chandeliers. Hills sloping downward, soft carpet leading to the stage. A voice captures the audience. Hear it once, and you will wait forever to hear it again. Owl heartbeat. Owl meditation. Owl silence. Hear it a second time, and a third, eternity in between. It comes from the south. Or is it the west? The east? From your very own chest? Out through your fingertips. In with your breath.

On Earth we are all native people. We were born here, as were our ancestors. We did not invade the planet. Like the newest of newborns, we appeared, we explored. Not knowing, being lost, is part of our natural condition. And as many times as we are found, the finding still grows. Not in knowledge alone. In silence. In solitude. In awareness. It grows in the wilderness. It grows in the grocery store, and in the traffic jam. And the only thing it asks is to be noticed.

June 5, 2021


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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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