I still walk every day, but my whispers have died on the vine. This is a good thing, because it was almost immediately plain that they were leading nowhere and were better off left unuttered. Eleven entries in all, I’ll let them stand as a reminder: when there is nothing to say, say nothing. And, even when there is something to say, chances are that it should be left unsaid […]
There’s an owl in the cedar and the heart and mind are know wear ~ [ 2121 ]
This morning the bare oaks explain what they’ve woven Like old men who speak with their hands. ~ [ 2120 ]
Obsessive description of one’s experience A child’s first breath, unrecorded, unremembered Silence isn’t silence, only Silence is ~ [ 2119 ]
Night blooms — and something else you said. It moves — through my life, yes, and in my head. ~ [ 2118 ]
I walk until the poem is done come in and write it down and tho’ I soon forget the words I live them through the song ~ [ 2117 ]
May I one day wake to find all my words have turned to cherry blossoms. ~ [ 2116 ]
I am what I am — a star, the cherry tree — an outstretched hand. ~ [ 2115 ]
If sleep is life and death is waking up, the lightest dark and the darkest light is just enough. ~ [ 2114 ]
No TV or computer, only a piano and an old manual typewriter. All relationships were real: family, neighbors, friends; our chickens and our dogs. This was life on the farm in the Eighties before we moved to Oregon. Writing on paper, tapping out lines, learning songs on the piano. Working on the farm and in the garden. Glad when someone came by. Glad when they didn’t. And now — yes, […]
William Michaelian 