We do not know what we will be called upon to do.
And it is not unusual at all that we do not know we are doing it.
Canvas 537 — February 19, 2015
[ 428 ]
A child makes a few marks and is showered with praise.
“Such promise! I’m amazed!”
A grown man must be famous, dull, or refined.
“What is it? Why is he wasting my time?”
Canvas 1,235 — June 15, 2019
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Canvas 1,235
Some are flowers, bleeding at the stems.
Some are frost on windowpanes.
Some are haunted, some reserved.
A westbound bus on a sun-blind curve.
Some look back when you least expect it.
A lightning flash. A winding path.
A baby bird.
Canvas 367 — March 4, 2014
[ 418 ]
Some Are Flowers — Canvas 367
In 2017, on the tenth day of June, two drawings were made.
I have no other record of that day — unless, perhaps,
I were to go back and examine the month’s bank statement.
If we went anywhere, or spent any money,
I like to think it was for strawberries.
Canvas 921
Canvas 922
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Canvases 921 and 922
To take a lifetime to write it, even when it appears quickly and suddenly on the page.
To discover how deep are its roots, and how bright its leaves.
To see the space around it, the light behind it, and the shadows it casts.
To listen to it breathe.
To marvel at its strength, in a savage and brutal age.
To die for it, if that’s what it takes.
To read through the fire, and write from the grave.
Canvas 1,207 — May 10, 2018
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The Sentence — Canvas 1,207
In front of his house, near the door,
a neighbor not far from here
has small replicas of the statues on Easter Island.
Every day, I walk a lifetime through the sand to find them.
Among the Ruins — April 16, 2009
Canvas 917 — June 1, 2017
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Among the Ruins — Canvas 917
Es él distinguida por la vida imaginaria —
o, “Sin molinos de viento, su mundo no es más que un sombrero divertido.”
(Con disculpas á Cervantes)
Canvas 913 — May 30, 2017
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Canvas 913 — With Apologies
The dry grass of my ambition has a beauty all its own.
All the more so with the fences down.
And the graveyard overgrown.
Portland, Oregon — December 1988
Before Me, the Past
Before me, the past speeds ahead.
It arrives, I know not when.
Behind me, the future is silent.
It knows that I am dead.
Pity, there is no grief in starlight.
Mercy, cries for the unborn.
Duty, is a failed science.
Love, walks alone.
You show me a sign.
A bright, fathomless smile.
As if there were, anything.
As if we were, real.
As if, rainbows give birth to children.
And they do: rainbows, and strawberries.
Fallen angels, white as any snowflake.
Black as an eye in a song.
Blue, as when light returns.
Green, because everything is so damn silly.
Honeyed as any flower.
Or as the scent and color of skin.
Intimate, as graveyard stone.
Whispers, with cold gray fingertips.
Wet shoes: where have I been?
And how did you find me?
A siren in a cityscape.
Moonlight, on a table.
Perhaps, or, simply, fate.
A wet sponge by the sink.
A leaf, a candle.
An unexpected need.
Poems, Slightly Used, November 21, 2010
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1988 — Before Me, the Past
Well done, ax-man, friend. Now look closely.
Beneath the bark of my experience are my growth rings.
And I will be back again.
Canvas 501 — January 1, 2015
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Canvas 501 — Tree Spirit
Is the early-morning tapping of woodpeckers a form of communication? Is it song?
Is the mind’s ear the source of an echo?
And what of the mind’s eye? Is that where we go when we’re gone?
Canvas 1,176 — March 14, 2018
Anonymous
I see you on a swing in a doorway
between two failing timbers,
caught by an echo
in the black night beyond.
Recently Banned Literature, May 23, 2011
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William Michaelian 