Begging Bowl
I will be the cherry tree, and you will never know. March 20, 2020. Afternoon. [ 700 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Death’
Tomorrow
Each addition to this collection of poems, notes, and drawings has been made with the understanding that it could have been the last. This entry is no different. As far as I can tell, I am here now. I seem to be healthy. I ate a small breakfast and took a walk again this morning, filling my lungs with the fresh chilly air. I took a shower. I see now […]
Dear Theo
It is perhaps not that strange in these virus times, to want to hurry and read something before I die — and yet there it is — the thought arrives unbidden — and so I set it down, not knowing whether it is prescient or the result of a life-long habit of fictionalizing my existence. The book in question consists of three volumes, and contains the letters of Vincent Van […]
Steps
The worm moon — on such a clear morning, even her robins are visible. March 10, 2020 Steps “When she rests in the apple tree — that’s when we’ll harvest the moon.” And they took great care with the ladder, not to make a sound. “Son? Do you see her face? Why are you looking down?” And that is what he remembers, this day in the […]
Symbols
Life is the ultimate virus — it kills everyone. It’s also a symbol — of love. March 7, 2020 Symbols Flight and Bird — and then one day Light became Word, And Sky and Heart concurred. [ 687 ]
Call and Response
Things are exactly as they should be — as they must be — all is simply a matter of natural, inevitable succession, as fluid as a river, with the river’s twists and turns — none are right or wrong, better or worse — the river is acting according to its nature, and is fulfilling itself at its own timeless pace, heedless of the sluices and dams in our thinking. Hold […]
Procession, Highway 22
Through pink clouds of plum flowers And air too cold for bees — even Grief seems pleased To find You — in your white robe — Love — February 26, 2020 [ 677 ]
When Morning Comes
A little bit of marble — stout blades of dewy grass — I expect this too — shall pass — to lichen — us. [ 675 ]
I fill my lungs with air — feel something strange
in there — akin to childhood — a winding stair that clouds
of dream obscure — or an azure tree of stars — fruit ripe
and sure — of one — last — reckoning
February 18, 2020
Canvas 355 — white on black, February 3, 2014
[ 671 ]
Canvas 355 — In the Lane
Warm, the Flesh, Sweet, the Veil
Noted thus far, very lightly in pencil, near the top of the blank page opposite the Index of First Lines, the poems numbered 435, 712, and 730, beginning, respectively, Much Madness is divinest Sense — I could not stop for Death — Defrauded I a Butterfly — all three of which are old favorites of mine — and yet when I encountered them in my slow but steady progress through […]
William Michaelian 