2010
On the wall above an antique oak dining chair
upon which rest a thrift store ukulele
and two Marine Band harmonicas in the key of C.
Canvas 124
[ 97 ]
Drawings
2017
Canvas 967
[ 92 ]
Canvas 967
2010
Is black the thread that keeps these stars fastened to my coat?
Nevermore
[ 90 ]
Nevermore
From a distance, he probably looks like an old tree stump
in a drained lake bed, but from here, a bust preparing for takeoff.
Or maybe he’s just landed? Half thought, half drought?
Canvas 1,225
[ 85 ]
Canvas 1,225
2017
Again and again, while sifting through old drawings,
I find myself stopping at this face. Or maybe I simply find myself.
Canvas 840
[ 83 ]
Canvas 840
2001
That this lumpy old drawing is dear to my heart needs no explanation.
For ten long, short, memorable, forgetful, eventful years,
it lit the right-hand column on the news page of my first website,
I’m Telling You All I Know. Now it is here.
My Father’s Old Chair
[ 80 ]
My Father’s Old Chair
Canvas 1,224 — August 12, 2018
[ 79 ]
Canvas 1,224
2015
Between Acts
[ 78 ]
Between Acts
2018
Canvas 1,182
Canvas 1,182
[ 75 ]
Between Windmills
Yesterday we had the good fortune of visiting the Grove of the Patriarchs
in the shadow of Mt. Rainier. Ancient red cedars and firs.
It was ninety-five degrees. Their bark was cool to the touch.
Old people there, and infirm. Little children with wide eyes and walking sticks.
The crossing of a suspension bridge one or two at a time.
A woman with a cane, a man with a long white beard.
Both were dusty, sweating, and smiling.
The Grove of the Patriarchs. The Grove of the Matriarchs.
Words. Names. Do we really need them, with so much patience around?
Canvas 1,223 — August 9, 2018
[ 74 ]
William Michaelian 