William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Time’

Shall I Tell You of My Former Life?

Slow verse, dry stones, the river shows her age. Kind nurse, soft tones, her smile full of maple leaves. August 20, 2021 . Shall I Tell You of My Former Life? Shall I tell you of my former life? It happens in the strangest way, today, not yesterday, before tomorrow begins, and where my new life ends, over, and yet over, again. Like smoke, it rides the wind, and as […]

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Thinking of You Out There

Ripening grapes, the first crickets, and a few dry leaves. Light. Dark. Tired in the way of a warning. August 6, 2021 . Thinking of You Out There Thinking of you out there, deep in the dry grass and summer smoke, steady as a blind-cricket time-piece; how want is a dry well, and truth the tale of windmill blades. Recently Banned Literature, July 10, 2014 . [ 1189 ]

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Eyes as Windows

There is a mist now, softly falling, saying, Distance, dear one, is something you’ve imagined. People, things, mountains — peace, justice, joy — love, enlightenment — all are as immediate as these kisses I weave upon your face. What are miles, but a place to leave your burden beside the road? What is time, but an awkward counting towards the end of fear? And what is enlightenment, but needless proof […]

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If I Have Time

Evil, it seems to me, is an acute form of ignorance. If I have time to be angry, then I must also have time to love. And if I love, I have no time to be angry. And time itself is an illusion. Will these words reach you before we are gone? Will they reach anyone? What can that matter, if we love? Recently Banned Literature, February 21, 2018 . […]

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Time

Isn’t it revealing that we say time passes, when it is really we who pass? The heron we saw two mornings ago standing motionless at water’s edge — what need has he of time? What need has anything? What need the mountains, the rivers, the trees, the stars, the moon? Time is a drug we take in frequent small doses. It isn’t required for our health or survival, yet we […]

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Last Rites

Each silence has its corresponding sound, and the other way around. The bird, the bee, the softly falling gown. The words by which they’re known. The waiting train, the one insane, the cricket, and the temple bell. The gentle rhyme, the end of time, the thing that makes you smile now. . [ 845 ]

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x Frames

When I see birds chase each other through the maze of the budding fig tree without so much as touching a twig, I realize how quickly they must be processing the visual information given them by their eyes. If I view the scene at x frames per second, they must be viewing it at x frames a great many times over; it is this, perhaps, that makes them wise. Perhaps, […]

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Day Book

Which should I believe? Which should I trust? Earth’s April, or the April in my mind? The many Aprils, the Aprils of loss, the Aprils of discovery, the Aprils of love? None? Both? All? The Aprils of the foolishest of the most foolish of fools? The April of fine calendars, of which my mother has no need, and knows nothing about? March 11, 2020 [ 691 ]

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The Great Pretender

Time is the ultimate convenience. I don’t know what it is, how it works, or if it even exists. And yet in my precious ignorance, I claim to watch it pass. If I were God, I would laugh — then get up and dance. [ 676 ]

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