Yesterday afternoon, the deep wet grass in front of the house was so green it made the sun smile — a wonderful thing, considering what the sun sometimes has to look down upon, even if it is not a person, and is, as many adults believe, just a star. October 18, 2020 . Child With a Lantern in a Dream Now you can see, Mr. Sun, that there is nothing […]
When a bee dies for the last fall flower, a poet makes his flight home. (and the other way around) . [ 881 ]
A little boy and a sparrow grave . . . the day he put his gun away . . . . [ 880 ]
The end of the world is a strange and beautiful place. It keeps growing, and it keeps ending. And as it ends, it gives birth to countless new beginnings. Eyes open, eyes close, eyes open again. Galaxies and atoms. Oceans and tufts of grass. A little boy’s pockets turned inside out for the wash. What he remembers. What he loses. What he collects. Where have you been? his kind mother […]
The poet who worries about not being read forgets one thing: his face accompanies him everywhere. moonlight on the vine and the sweet grapes left behind by that old raccoon . Old Grandpa Moon The whole great countryside was asleep. The night was clear and cold, and the stars were winking above the farmhouses and fields. But inside an old stone cottage, there was one little boy who could not […]
A bumblebee asleep on a flower dreams of the last time he danced. August 9, 2020 Bouquet Dahlia buds every which way all pointing homeward and then you say here my love Recently Banned Literature, September 26, 2016 [ 833 ]
little grasshopper my thoughts lead nowhere oh! you have such pretty wings! [ 823 ]
The news is a mass addiction. Every minute of every day, millions of people return to it, in quiet desperation, in anger, in distraction, for another dose, another fix. It’s a form of collective hysteria, this thirst and hunger for the negative and obvious, this fear of not knowing what is already known, and which represents only a tiny portion of what it means to be alive in this wondrous […]
Summer one day, spring the next. The sky wondering which clothes to wear. Gray, blue, none but the pollen in her hair. on an old clay pot a bee waits just long enough for me to catch up May 30, 2020 [ 764 ]
Butterfly, why was I given this stone tablet, chisel, and hammer? “Wings” Poems, Slightly Used, March 17, 2009 [ 746 ]
William Michaelian 
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