A June poem in December, a December poem in June — blue star creeper blooming in the lawn, the scent so strong, the bees are making notes. I open the mailbox. Love has sent me another shadow. Bell Weather how blue and sweet the stars today how grain to meet the tongue how saint the nurse of this quaint verse how old to be this young Recently Banned Literature, […]
Honey? Sun? Meet my old friends, Strawberry and Robin. For it’s tea time with a shiny spoon, and Love and Death will be here soon, Unless they have forgotten. . . . Comes then a knock upon the door, and our hearts, now creaking open . . . [ 755 ]
Reckoning from the year 1776, this country is two hundred and forty-four years old. I have lived sixty-four of those years, roughly a quarter of that span. Reading the relatively brief history of this land, how can I not be stunned and saddened by the magnitude of the slaughter, theft, exploitation, and waste that marks each stage of its development? Certainly I am not surprised to find the country as […]
One thing we can learn from flowers is how to meet one another with an open, welcoming face . . . Imagine young parents pushing strollers filled with flowers . . . Through gardens of children blooming in the last May showers . . . And an earth rejoicing in the human race . . . Recently Banned Literature, May 23, 2017 [ 749 ]
I wonder if it’s understood that each page is written with a smile. I wonder if my saying so can possibly make this clear. In Season To pine is to yearn — love blesses the ripened cones. [ 743 ]
You look for love, when love is all there is. You can be numb to love, but you can’t exist outside it. You say, “What about hate? Hate is not love.” But love wants you well. Hate is love’s bitter pill. You don’t know, or perhaps you’ve only forgotten: Life is another word for love. It means “I will.” Recently Banned Literature, May 22, 2011 [ 742 […]
Almost dawn — the first dove — as if love is a sweet eccentricity [ 735 ]
Next time I will let you taste my honey — Then she flew on — and left me — with a hum [ 733 ]
The moonlight, and our boat — don’t they make a lovely pair? Their faded paint, and silver hair? O dear one — how long have we — been sitting here? [ 720 ]
Death, or politics? Politics have neither death’s dignity nor purpose; and they lack death’s sublime, optimistic future; for after death, that which is once said to have been living, goes on living in myriad forms and ways; whereas politics are an accumulation of toxic waste matter that is dangerous to all living things. That politics often cause death, is reason enough to set them aside. Why sacrifice my precious energy […]
William Michaelian 