When I was in fifth grade, I learned to play the trumpet. It was easy. Each week, when the music teacher asked me to play the current lesson, I went through the lines without error. I didn’t practice. One or two times through at the beginning of the week was all I needed. When I was in sixth grade, it was the same. Finally, the time came for me and […]
The song in his heart was stuck in his throat. And the attending doctor said to himself, I must be sure not to die this way. . [ 1672 ]
In me is a little something of everyone who ever lived. Deep in the code, I’ve been through it all. The universe, too, is in my flesh, blood, and bones. That means I’m part of the greatest, most efficient recycling project ever known. As such, I’ve learned not to cling to the idea of being who I am, or who others think I am, or to worry about what will […]
The river is high, the water wide, the ferryman far from shore. The heron flies, the ferryman cries, pulls hard upon his oar. . [ 1669 ]
It isn’t a matter of using the day, but of finding a way to express one’s gratitude. Or it might be a matter of finding one’s gratitude and expressing the way. * Junco bathing in a puddle — sunlight-celebration. * Death is the poet’s last poem. Life is the page it’s written on. * The body ages like a star. The mind is its light, seen from afar. * Joy […]
A falling star — a petal bright, from the flower. * Some books I leave open, so that during daylight hours, I can read a few lines from them in passing. Diaries, journals, letters, poetry, too — and it’s all poetry, beginning with the light coming in through the window. Or call it pollen, or honey, because the words coat the wings, and sweeten the tongue. * How many things […]
Sometimes I feel I could live to be a very old man. Sometimes I feel I already have. Sometimes I feel the end is near, as it always has been. Sometimes I feel quite young, a boy laughing where the spirit is. . [ 1647 ]
I don’t mind being simple. The earth is simple. Crumble me. Turn me with a shovel. See me full of worms and roots. . [ 1644 ]
Leaves crisp where they’ve fallen, grass growing through. Winter’s a love story. We are too. . [ 1643 ]
So perfect, so still — did you die, little bird, or were you cured by the cold? . [ 1636 ]
William Michaelian 