In terms of poetry, I find the seventeen-syllable habit a good one, and I’ve written many in this mode and haven’t found it limiting. I call them haiku, and several have been published here and elsewhere as such within that very fluid definition. Splitting hairs over form is something in which I don’t engage. Times change; language changes; people change; stones, ponds, stars, cherry blossoms, remain the same. Haiku or […]
Frogs in the spring, crickets in the fall — respiration, and pulse, normal. . [ 1815 ]
When I grow up, I’ll be a responsible essayist. I’ll solve the world’s problems, one by one. Then I’ll invent new ones. I’ll also sell subscriptions. Until then, I’ll be an irresponsible poet and doodler. I’ll be a dooet and poetler. I’ll also sell inflictions. When everyone’s well, I’ll say they’re ill. And when they’re ill, I’ll say I welled them. I’ll have blog security. I’ll be avoided from miles […]
Crab grass has deep roots. If you pull me up by my hair, mine will break too. . [ 1811 ]
Washed away at our meeting — in the waterfall, none of us have names. . [ 1810 ]
Little bright lights twinkling in the pine — why on earth would I call them birds? . [ 1809 ]
Sweeping the walk . . . with all, of our ancestors, and children, to be born. . [ 1623 ]
The mailman shines his light in our box, late again for his supper. . [ 1605 ]
apples crisp, maples rose and yellow / geese in flight, wet feet on cold stone . [ 1604 ]
William Michaelian 