Geraniums
Even in his grave, the old cat is as silent as he has always been. So soft, fall red, the geraniums. . [ 841 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Memory’
The Mad Artist
Fifteen years. Do I really remember this, or does this remember me? . The Mad Artist Yesterday I was waiting at a light when a mad artist quickly sketched a little girl in front of me in the crosswalk. The girl looked up and gave me the prettiest, craziest smile — a smile of freedom and recognition. I replied with a silly grin. This made her eyes shine, even brighter […]
Closing Time
Even if I could remember what was passing through my mind when I was writing this poem thirteen years ago, how important could it be? Stumbling on it today, I’m simply glad that it is a poem; and I’m glad it’s still willing to speak to me. And what does it say? It says, Come in, come in. Whatever it is, whatever it was, is all forgotten and forgiven now. […]
Mimosa
It was early in the morning on the last day of July — yesterday, in fact — that I noticed the scent of dried and drying grasses in the air, of ripening and spent seed — that distinct valley smell, leavened by dew and blent with the dust of harvested fields. That same day, a few hours later, we decided that the unidentified seedling in our cedar-and-juniper wilderness might well […]
A Certain Age
A profusion of Queen Anne’s Lace along both sides of the road, offset with patches of tall yellow flowers in bloom — whatever their name, or names, they are the same we see on our walks by the river, and which the bees love. In this gentle-warm atmosphere, one might think, or perhaps only wish, that the railroad tracks’ sole purpose is the transporting of dreams. From north to south […]
August Days
August days are a recipe for longing: they bring scented dust and dew, the first nocturnal kiss upon veined leaves that are beginning to resemble my mother’s hands. Though much of summer lies ahead, autumn is creeping in, feigning patience with vineyard rows, gently coaxing the fruiting bough, Soft the yellows, purples, reds, soft the folds upon her unmade bed, soft the light on her faded gown, My mother holds […]
Self-Portrait in White
The third volume of Vincent’s letters. Yesterday afternoon, he cut off a piece of his ear. July 15, 2020 Self-Portrait in White A man and his donkey; a snowy field; a cart full of bones. The wind. Poems, Slightly Used, November 10, 2009 [ 807 ]
The Observer Observed
Is it possible to read about, or listen to, the experiences of others, without filtering them through, or comparing them to, one’s own? I don’t suggest that an unbiased comparison would be of lesser or no value. In essence, that asks the same, or nearly the same, question: Is it possible to consider one’s own experiences non-judgmentally, as other than a series of successes and failures, or a source of […]
William Michaelian 