Some of us are loved into existence. Some are hated into existence. Some are conceived as pawns in a game. Some are born of hope, or grief, others of disinterest, selfishness, ignorance, boredom. Some are born of brutal possession and unbridled lust. And yet, however it is brought about, our arrival is a living symbol which transforms and transcends its cause. And our death? Some of us are loved away, […]
An early-morning walk, with the full moon setting behind the firs, the tops of which are obscured by a rapidly accumulating fog. The grass is heavy with dew. And now fog is forming in the street. The beauty of this world, as I love, know, and understand it, would not be possible without the ongoing, ever-renewing cycle of birth, death, and decay. Why, then, would I think of my own […]
Can you imagine being condemned to immortality while all around you falls blissfully away? So say the maple, the cedar, the berry. . [ 886 ]
With the rain, the mushrooms — bright-white at first, they soon become flared skirts and fans in an elfin dance; cursed, or worse — or blessed — quiet, composed — kissed — for some the world ends like this; others are smashed by tanks and NATO equipment. September 28, 2020 Crossroads#2 Pencil on Index CardJuly 2, 2010 . [ 884 ]
When a bee dies for the last fall flower, a poet makes his flight home. (and the other way around) . [ 881 ]
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 […]
The death of an old aunt at one hundred two; Cracks in the demitasse — cracks in the glue. September 3, 2020 . [ 859 ]
Even in his grave, the old cat is as silent as he has always been. So soft, fall red, the geraniums. . [ 841 ]
It must be difficult for a flag-waver, virus-spreader, and bigot to imagine himself on a long journey in the hold of a disease-infested seafaring kettle, and emerging later to stand on the auction block; it must be difficult for him, or her, to imagine the lash of the whip, the iron ring, or passing even one day as a slave in the fields. But once he does — for I […]
Even if I could remember what was passing through my mind when I was writing this poem thirteen years ago, how important could it be? Stumbling on it today, I’m simply glad that it is a poem; and I’m glad it’s still willing to speak to me. And what does it say? It says, Come in, come in. Whatever it is, whatever it was, is all forgotten and forgiven now. […]
William Michaelian 