Full Flower
Terrible poetry, yet what a joy it is to read, for love is blooming with the weeds. . [ 1532 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Poetry’
Phases
What’s left of the moon a perfect little fingernail I remember when our baby girl was born . [ 1499 ]
I Think I Know
This morning we visited South Falls, Lower South Falls, and Frenchy Falls. On the way there, we talked about learning and doing things slowly, simply for the sake of learning and doing them, with no thought of achievement, results, or how long they might take. One could focus on learning to play an instrument, for instance, or take up a language; I could learn English, even how to write poetry. […]
Jiggity-Jig
When we set out in the cold this morning, the body said, Are we sure? We didn’t answer, of course. And when we finished our run, with our feet wet and warm, the body again said, Are we sure? We climbed the steps, let ourselves in. Took off our wet cap, dried our sandals, and propped them against the wall above the furnace vent. Coffee? we said. Gladly, was the […]
War Is Over
Two and a half miles and two owls. Robins and rain. Petals and pollen. Street, feet, sandal-squeak. And that was my run. My brother’s funeral has come and gone. It was in Edmonton. We were here at home. There was video provided the next day, despite a power outage during the service, which left the room dark. A side door had to be opened to admit some light. Admit the […]
A Few Clay Pots
Let’s leave behind a few clay pots and a worn out pair of sandals. As for dreams and thoughts, let’s keep them guessing. They will be anyway: Religion, music, poetry, science — cathedrals, symphonies, books — Fragments that represent, but never quite make, the whole. Our little daughter said it best with the very first word she spoke: Light. She was nine months old. And when she was seven, She […]
Foolish Questions
On the tracks to the east, a train’s heading north. A long train. North through the fog, beneath a full moon. The moon that kept us up most of the night. Light in the room. Light between the closed blinds. But it’s the silence up there that I wonder about. I can’t help thinking how strong the moon must be. Is that why it’s round? To keep it from being […]
Short Poem, Long Poem
short poem, long poem soft low stop go then now my father’s last breath . [ 1376 ]
The Fire Next Time
My reading has slowed to a crawl. I love it as much as ever, and possibly even more, but sitting and I are no longer the friends we once were. The body craves movement, and the more movement I give it, the more free and flexible it becomes. Still, there is James Baldwin. Thus far I’ve read over three hundred pages of his penetrating and insightful essays, and am near […]
Virtuoso
Whatever the medium or craft — music, language, carpentry, working with the soil — the virtuoso is, first and foremost, a life-long learner — a child in an aging body whose heart and mind are an image in kind of the flowering cosmos. If it were only a matter of skill, the word virtuoso wouldn’t have the meaning it does. The world would be overrun with them. And yet that, […]
William Michaelian 