A soft lead pencil, a fingertip — the brush a mind,
the mind a memory, memory a fallen flower.
Canvas 565 — June 28, 2015
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Tag Archive for ‘Art’
We do not know what we will be called upon to do.
And it is not unusual at all that we do not know we are doing it.
Canvas 537 — February 19, 2015
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Canvas 537
July Rain
The art of making it rain, I learned from my father. That I am here to explain, I learned from my mother. July Rain Dying is such old work — I settle the dust in our yard with a hose. Poems, Slightly Used, July 5, 2009 [ 423 ]
A child makes a few marks and is showered with praise.
“Such promise! I’m amazed!”
A grown man must be famous, dull, or refined.
“What is it? Why is he wasting my time?”
Canvas 1,235 — June 15, 2019
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Canvas 1,235
Splash
O dear one, it is not religion that saves us, or meditation, or philosophy, or work, or art, but love operating through these things, and our inevitable surrender to her benevolent force, if not in this life, then in the next, which is this very moment, of course. “It Is Not Religion” Recently Banned Literature, March 12, 2017 Splash Above a meadow of moss . . . a towhee […]
Some are flowers, bleeding at the stems.
Some are frost on windowpanes.
Some are haunted, some reserved.
A westbound bus on a sun-blind curve.
Some look back when you least expect it.
A lightning flash. A winding path.
A baby bird.
Canvas 367 — March 4, 2014
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Some Are Flowers — Canvas 367
In 2017, on the tenth day of June, two drawings were made.
I have no other record of that day — unless, perhaps,
I were to go back and examine the month’s bank statement.
If we went anywhere, or spent any money,
I like to think it was for strawberries.
Canvas 921
Canvas 922
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Canvases 921 and 922
To take a lifetime to write it, even when it appears quickly and suddenly on the page.
To discover how deep are its roots, and how bright its leaves.
To see the space around it, the light behind it, and the shadows it casts.
To listen to it breathe.
To marvel at its strength, in a savage and brutal age.
To die for it, if that’s what it takes.
To read through the fire, and write from the grave.
Canvas 1,207 — May 10, 2018
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The Sentence — Canvas 1,207
In front of his house, near the door,
a neighbor not far from here
has small replicas of the statues on Easter Island.
Every day, I walk a lifetime through the sand to find them.
Among the Ruins — April 16, 2009
Canvas 917 — June 1, 2017
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Among the Ruins — Canvas 917
Es él distinguida por la vida imaginaria —
o, “Sin molinos de viento, su mundo no es más que un sombrero divertido.”
(Con disculpas á Cervantes)
Canvas 913 — May 30, 2017
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William Michaelian 