One thing I’ve learned is to not idealize the past. On the farm, for instance, in those later years before we moved to Oregon, I would eat a fresh lemon a few minutes after rising; then I’d have a small cup of coffee; then, depending on the time of year — our lemon tree was an ever-bearing variety — I’d either have breakfast, or I’d go outside to greet and […]
The birdbaths have thawed, and are reflecting the surrounding trees and blue sky overhead. From time to time, visitors arrive to dance on their rims and partake of their rippling waters. In between, they chase each other through the brambles and still-to-be-recycled piles of storm debris, which no doubt isn’t debris to them, but just one more temporary, inevitable consequence of being awake and alive. Without the piles, they carry […]
Little by little, Christmas trees are disappearing from neighborhood windows, as well as lights along the eaves. Here and there a giant inflated Santa or Grinch still stands, lit from within and swollen from eating too much during the holidays. Rain-battered, wind-tattered, thought-scattered, sweet butter rum. Tethered to their post, these ghosts of Christmas past seem as haunted as Dickens, while inside, children wonder why Christmas must end. They remain […]
If I remember correctly, this poem is the first I wrote in the form of a dictionary entry; hence the category, Definitions, in which I’ve filed a couple dozen or more poems and notes that fit that term. I’ve thought before, and I think again now — though I’m sure I’m not the first to think it — what a fine thing it would be to have an entire dictionary […]
We have moved beyond genocide, to environmental suicide — women, children, butterflies. Thus we kill ourselves and think it wise. Look at me, Ma, my desk is made of gold; my toilet’s like a whale’s mouth. Yes; and thy heart is black, and thou art not my son. ~ [ 2009 ]
The speaker of this poem comes from a long tradition of wisdom and reverence. His face is aglow; we can see his hands; and his voice, in its calm assurance, is the instrument of a vital, timeless teaching. May the children who hear it blossom and grow, and their light shine forth ’til the end. For what he said still stands. ~ [ 2007 ]
A child’s doll has died — such an innocent, heartbreaking image, easy to accept within the context of a dream, as is the doll’s resurrection. While it’s faithfully recorded from my own experience, the passage reads like fiction; perhaps that is why, if a child in the neighborhood told me her doll had died, I would believe her, and offer whatever sympathy and help she needed, even if that help […]
What they suffered, they suffered together. Material wealth was never their concern, their poverty being the inherited kind. Yet kindness is their inheritance. It’s been said that they died the same day, within hours of each other, their shared dream having run its course. There were children, one of whom, we are told, made these sketches of her parents when they were both very old, using a piece of charcoal […]
If this is my calling, so be it. If it’s simply something I like or love to do, again, so be it. And yet, at the beginning of my Perspective statement, which was written a dozen or so years later, and has remained unchanged to this day, I say, Each word I write and line I draw is an artist’s statement — not because I am an artist, but because […]
Am I really as simple as Cool Water suggests? Can I find contentment in using our grandson’s little blue watering can? He’s fourteen now, and so was seven when this was written. He has since outgrown the watering can, but I haven’t. I still use it every chance I get, and find it as cheering and heartening as ever. He thinks I’m crazy; I like that, because it’s further proof […]
William Michaelian 