The speaker of this poem comes from a long tradition of wisdom and reverence. His face is aglow; we can see his hands; and his voice, in its calm assurance, is the instrument of a vital, timeless teaching. May the children who hear it blossom and grow, and their light shine forth ’til the end. For what he said still stands. ~ [ 2007 ]
Standing between the hot, vibrating fender and the seat, there was just room enough for me to ride beside my father on the tractor. At three miles an hour, we went up and down the vineyard rows, transported by the mellow, acoustic hum of the gas engine as dozens of blackbirds crowded behind us to hunt for worms and bugs in the newly turned soil. This, too, was paradise. There […]
We sat in rows in classrooms. We laughed and squirmed and raised our hands. Pretty girls, awkward boys. Pretty boys, boyish girls. Dervish whirls and eyes. Teacher, teacher, tell us true. You have seen us, bright and blue. We were meek and we were wise. You taught us, and we taught you. Some were lies, some were true. Teacher, teacher. Teacher, teacher, teacher. * I don’t resolve, but I do […]
I wonder if there is anything more ludicrous than the idea of self-improvement. Imagine looking at a newborn baby and thinking such a beautiful, perfect thing can be better than it is. Imagine believing so strongly in the idea of imperfection that one is bound to see it everywhere and in everything. And then imagine teaching by example this tragic outlook to a blossoming, perfect child. . [ 1370 ]
William Michaelian 