The dream is a memory, the memory a dream. One such had its beginning in perhaps my seventh or eighth year, for it was after my recurring hospital-related dream of shooting marbles with George, though not so long that others had taken on any significance. I say it had its beginning, because it lives on, even now, as I approach my sixty-seventh birthday. I was reminded of it again when […]
Mist, fog, smoke — a lonely street light where the town ends and the country begins, dreaming of an affair with the moon — foolish enough — then you smile, so little you’ve changed since your youth. . [ 1577 ]
It’s been some time since we’ve seen the stars. First the smoke, now the clouds. But there are other ways to set our course. With smiles, thanks, and bows. . [ 1555 ]
the wind scours the eaves and here’s the pipe my uncle smoked before he was killed in the war . [ 1551 ]
Dawn. An orange, smoky sky. When the world ends, won’t you come to see me by and by? . [ 1548 ]
Extreme heat. Wildfires. Smoke. Clouds. Lightning strikes. Add one vast ocean. Mix thoroughly until the consistency of love. Hold breath. Allow to rise. Makes one infinite serving. July 31, 2022 . [ 1506 ]
Tiny towns and crossings on the west side of the river: Amity, Hopewell, Eola. Lincoln. Zena. Bethel. On this side: St. Louis, Brooks, Mt. Angel, Bethany. Churches. Barns. Cemeteries. Oaks, firs, winding roads that give way to gravel. Smoke from fireplaces and stoves. Deer. Wild blackberries. When was the last time I wanted something I didn’t really need? It must be the forthcoming Richard Wilbur translations of Molière. And the […]
Life, a familiar echo, a hound on the porch, the sweet pull of smoke; You say I’ve been away, and I dare must believe it; Or how, does your hand, cause the beating, of my heart? “Here Before”Recently Banned Literature, December 4, 2014 Canvas 120 December 8, 2010 . [ 1303 ]
Can you imagine standing on your bare feet in dewy grass, and still thinking you must search for the truth? Sept 21, 2021 . Autumn Fires On the sidewalk after coffee, my dead father appears long enough to inhale the smoke rising from my friend’s freshly lit cigarette. The three of us smile, say nothing. Recently Banned Literature, November 12, 2009 . [ 1234 ]
Four miles of dusty trails, with side trips down to what is now a very low-running stream. No clouds, no fog, no mist, no smoke. Far off, on the other side of the canyon, the great echoing voice of a raven. The talk now is of rain, and the patience of ferns. Bare feet. Thirty-nine degrees. Even in drought, we outlive our own death. September 16, 2021 . [ 1229 […]
William Michaelian 