And then there are the unremembered nights, the unwritten nights,
and the countless ways the dream of light transcends them.
Dream of Light — January 29, 2019
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Tag Archive for ‘Poetry’
I thought I had better call my old friend to see how he was doing,
forgetting for the moment he is dead, yet knowing it too,
and knowing I was forgetting, and knowing I knew.
Dream Fragment — January 28, 2019
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Dream Fragment
Precipice
Approaching the dam, you see the floodgates are open, and that everything below it and before you is bathed in cool mist — the oaks and the brambles, last summer’s grass, the mounds of half-melted granite looking for all the world like a giant’s tears. And you think, what is your own body if not a kind of dam, and what are your eyes if not floodgates? What are your […]
Meditation — Three Short Poems
Asked if he practices the art of meditation, the old man smiled and said, I don’t know. If I think I am meditating, am I? Meditation It’s not a question of loss or gain, but of the neighbor’s healthy lettuce; how many veins and folds it must contain of all that’s best for us; just as the less there is to test in us, the more the rest of […]
Wings
One thing my wife and I have learned on our many hikes through the mountains, is that on the steep downhill parts of the trail, it’s best if we don’t try to break our momentum. Instead, we run. That way, when the hike is done and in the days following, there’s no pain in our feet and knees and ankles. Also, the alertness, attention, and coordination required is a stimulating […]
I Find the Stone
Does a stone in a river resist the current? Or does it let the water wash over and around it and work its will? And when there is drought and the bed is dry, does the stone hide from the scorching sun? Now, if you say a stone simply sits there and that it has no consciousness and therefore no awareness or choice, does that change anything? Does your statement […]
Harbinger
One way to think of this breath of a poem is as the shortest possible biography of an unknown author still creating this world. But there are other ways, which involve rainbows and clouds, religion, philosophy, hope, loss, grief, triumph, and despair. As for myself, I give thanks for fresh air. Harbinger One stray crocus, raised like a prophet’s fist. Poems, Slightly Used, March 1, 2009 [ 267 ]
Blessings
I shot a rabbit once, and have been bleeding ever since. I shot a bird, and now my wings are bent. I shot an arrow at the heavens, and my heart is where it went. I shot my childhood, and this strange long life it sent. I shot my life, and death told me what it meant. I shot my death, and now I sing, and now I dance. [ […]
All the World’s Children
Everyone who was there is gone. This rain is their conversation — a gust of night air through the open front door, the bark of the dog, the winter crunch of a shoe in the yard. And far off — can you hear it? — a child is being born. All the World’s Children On the most painful of days, all the world’s children come forth bearing flowers: red […]
Eyes and Mirrors
It’s easy enough to see ourselves in other members of the animal kingdom, especially those with eyes most like our own, those deep pools of joy and sorrow and all else, as found in the neighbor’s dog or on the hill in a thoughtful cow. All are mirrors, all profound. And why not too the wriggling worm, the thorny bush, the rugged stone? Are they not in turn each eyes […]
William Michaelian 