Canvas 1,208 — Almost Dawn
Almost dawn — the first dove — as if love is a sweet eccentricity [ 735 ]
Blue Jeans And
We are in the gardening time of the year. And we are the garden. And the harvest is near. April 30, 2020 Blue Jeans And In the waking part of my dream, I’m on my knees in old blue jeans, planting flowers. In the sleeping part, I crumble sweet-aromatic soil in my hand, and, like a wise old chocolatier of a man, hold it up to the nose of […]
First Love
Next time I will let you taste my honey — Then she flew on — and left me — with a hum [ 733 ]
Towhee-to-we-to-be
I would gladly wear the colors of the male towhee that sings and dwells with his lovely mate in the birch-and-ivy environs of our fir-sheltered backyard. And it may well be that in another life, I already have, or will, and that this other life has a beautiful name of its own — Now. April 28, 2020 [ 732 ]
Doorway Poem
A hummingbird stands in place, eyes upon my face, looking in. The cedar — moves a little closer — and then the lilac, grass, and breeze. We all live here — for now — and we come and go as we please. [ 731 ]
More Would Be Less
After a cloudburst, comes a jeweled heaven in the juniper tree. April 25, 2020 [ 730 ]
Universal
Star so pale — her worn out shoes, her tired back, her eyes once blue. Sky so low — garden wall — child listens, sirens wail. Where they go — what I know — a quiver full of symbols in a gale. [ 729 ]
Low Tide
It’s easy to say, I want the best for everyone and everything, but it’s quite plain to me I don’t know what that best is. Lovely birch — her paper bark — no need for a pen today. [ 728 ]
Summer Service
I might have become a priest. What a disaster that would have been. And yet, had it happened, I might have found it the most wonderful thing in the world. Or maybe it did happen — long ago and far away, in a rocky, mountainous land. Summer Service a fly on the eucharist — shsh, shsh little children sound asleep on the cool stones on the cool stones sound […]
Fossil Poetry
The well ran dry. He dug deeper, and deeper, his back to the soft spring rain. Fossil Poetry I’m tempted to say writing is what keeps me sane, but I think we’d better reserve judgment on that. The opposite could easily be true. Writing might be what keeps me insane. Or, my insanity might be what keeps me writing. Then again, it might be my sanity that keeps me […]
William Michaelian 