Destiny
When a bee dies for the last fall flower, a poet makes his flight home. (and the other way around) . [ 881 ]
A Soldier Comes to Terms
A little boy and a sparrow grave . . . the day he put his gun away . . . . [ 880 ]
Naked in the Realm
The air was so fresh and clean yesterday, so perfectly scented with subtle fall fragrance, the edges of the clouds so beautifully crisp and defined, that one would think there had never been a fire in Oregon, or that nearby there are fires burning still. And now, borne by the southwest wind, rain approaches. In the afternoon I took out our tired old tomato plants; the cherry tomatoes, though, I […]
To Imagine Ourselves
Be it mundane or grand, evil or profound, what we imagine becomes our own self-fulfilling prophecy: the future we predict, and which we create thereby, is the present we are blessed or condemned to live. Imagination, therefore, is something we must tenderly cultivate and fearlessly explore. Held at bay, driven into hiding, it dwindles and atrophies. We become predictable, lifeless, and poor, and contribute little to the realm of possibility […]
Desperation
This afternoon I’ve heard an assortment of vehicles stop in front of the house, but each time I’ve gone to the window to look out, the street is empty and no one is there. I’ve heard small cars and big cars; mostly, I’ve heard delivery vehicles. All, though, without exception, including their drivers, have been of a phantom nature. Why they are on this particular street, and focused on this […]
Fire Line
The coming of autumn: the first yellow birch leaves, And a park bench that looks like an old upright piano, Which she plays quite naked, save for the wind in her hair And a bright necklace of newly sprouted mushrooms. She laughs: I’m only a painting! Yes. But I can’t help myself. I see it all here. Is there something special you’d like me to play? Anything. Anything. And then […]
We All Know What It Is
A thunderstorm began yesterday evening at about eight, with faraway rumbles and flashes of lightning to the east, which gradually increased and grew nearer during the night, until about two-thirty this morning, when we were engulfed in a loud and steady display, the house windows pulsing with light. This lasted about an hour, but out of it came little rain. The smokiness persists. And here in the dark, with more […]
Here Lies
The Dream of a Ridiculous Man — I wonder how many years have passed since I read this story aloud to my wife in the kitchen of the house we were renting at the time. Twenty? Twenty-five? The reading ended in tears — mine. And even then, it was not the first time I had read the story. Had Dostoevsky written nothing else, his mission on earth would have been […]
This I Call Happiness
Even just a few casual observations by Dostoevsky on the then-current publication of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina are of such a depth as to distinguish both as great writers. My own reading of the book years ago, as much as I enjoyed it, by comparison, was that of a naïve schoolboy. Considered in the context of Russian society and Russian history, of which then I had but a slight understanding, there […]
Cold Beer on a Hot Day
This much I know: if we had a two- or three-story house, I would, with or without a stick-horse, be galloping up and down the stairs numerous times a day. As it is, having to stay inside due to the smoke, I take regular walks over the length and breadth of our dwelling for the exercise. It has become quite the meditation. In the mysterious atmosphere of family heirlooms and […]
William Michaelian 