Cold Water Morning
Cold water morning — no bluff — not even death. March 17, 2021 . [ 1051 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Poetry’
Snow on the Lilac
Snow on the lilac — my mother has already forgotten that day. Poems, Slightly Used, April 27, 2008 . [ 1050 ]
Companion
old shovel from the farm / still loves / to look / for worms March 14, 2021 . [ 1048 ]
Never Will
cherry blossoms and my tea which never will stay warm Recently Banned Literature, March 23, 2017 . [ 1047 ]
A Faraway Town
Let us not explain everything, that we may not explain ourselves away, into meaninglessness, or superficiality, which is far worse. . A Faraway Town Between the rows beside the mounds above the tombs he knows so well, the tombs so dark, the tombs so cool, that pull him down and bend him ’round one frayed shoelace at a time, one copper-colored eyelet, a faraway town (without any news) where no […]
Now the Little Crocus
I have never been tempted to change my name. But as comfortable with it as I am, I can easily imagine setting it aside — all of it, first, middle, and last — not to replace it, but to do without a name entirely. I can also imagine doing without mirrors. In their own way, mirrors are as dangerous and destructive as guns, and being addicted to one’s reflection might […]
Belated Birthday Haiku
somewhere in this scroll / lies / the truth / I know March 10, 2021 . Belated Birthday Haiku Old cat warm against a sunshine wall — Kerouac licks his aching paw. Poems, Slightly Used, March 14, 2010 . [ 1044 ]
This Morning the Sky Is My Beloved
Only upon waking does this body form. What need is there otherwise? March 9, 2021 . This Morning the Sky Is My Beloved This morning the sky is my beloved and she beseeches me to take the earth from her hands for just a little while the earth heavy but so small and the rain is how her wept love falls. Recently Banned Literature, March 9, 2017 . [ 1043 […]
Socks, Shoes, Whisk Broom
The socks are of brown heirloom cotton, rising to the ankle, finished without dye, part kiss, part sigh. The shoes happened by, looking for a home. They wait in the closet by the door. Sometimes I hear them in the night, arguing with the whisk broom: Stop pacing. Stop waiting. Shh. Shh. When I open the door, they are mum. Each has a life, like the walls, the dark, the […]
After Her Walk
After her walk, I find a sprig of plum, drinking from a baby food jar. Poems, Slightly Used, March 30, 2009 . [ 1040 ]
William Michaelian 