Just after dark, two women in their fifties, home from work, one out to get her mail, the other stretching her legs on the sidewalk after her drive home — both offer a greeting and a smile — and I feel like a little boy on a merry-go-round, turned by fate’s precious little girls — who kindly do not laugh at me. March 3, 2020 [ 683 ]
This bird can mean anything — until it sings. Then it means everything. March 2, 2020 [ 682 ]
Love, I remember that day — the gardener was a bee, the flower your hand, and my heart was stung to perceive. [ 681 ]
Lower than the lowest cloud — higher than the highest tree — Brighter than the brightest sun — darker than the deepest grave — What are these thoughts — but almost — not quite — all — or none — of me? What are these things — but imagined — distinguished — company? What are these wings — but the wind’s — divine — philosophy? [ 680 ]
Evening star on His lapel — Moon — her Goddess fingernail — Never saw them dance so well — wonder if they bend this low To see us fall — and feel us feel — or if they know — The dream they dream — is real February 28, 2020 [ 679 ]
Things are exactly as they should be — as they must be — all is simply a matter of natural, inevitable succession, as fluid as a river, with the river’s twists and turns — none are right or wrong, better or worse — the river is acting according to its nature, and is fulfilling itself at its own timeless pace, heedless of the sluices and dams in our thinking. Hold […]
Through pink clouds of plum flowers And air too cold for bees — even Grief seems pleased To find You — in your white robe — Love — February 26, 2020 [ 677 ]
Time is the ultimate convenience. I don’t know what it is, how it works, or if it even exists. And yet in my precious ignorance, I claim to watch it pass. If I were God, I would laugh — then get up and dance. [ 676 ]
A little bit of marble — stout blades of dewy grass — I expect this too — shall pass — to lichen — us. [ 675 ]
I cut the grass and it keeps growing, Blade by blade, green and green on green. I cut the dawn. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. I cut the man. I kill myself with deeds. I turn to seeds. I sow the grass, I sow the dawn, I sow the man. And they sow me. I sow the poem, blind as blind can be. But the poem can see. The […]
William Michaelian 