Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
William...what beautiful words!greetings!
Greetings, Denise. Thank you!
Very fine and sweet, William; although the term is overused, poignant. Thanks for this.
Thanks, Peter. To paraphrase Emerson, every word was once a poem. That’s still true, I think, and poignantly so.
.MotherA Canadian girl, she was buried in Texas.Adopted, she thought maybe she was Dutch,but she had a Scottish name.Still, she looked so Irish in the casket.She had an Irish heart…loved poetryand horses and song and after all those yearsof living, it didn’t mean a thing.She never did get home, wherever it may have been.I guess if you’re just buried somewhere in the Earthit’s basically the same.Missing ThingsSo hard to find, these missing things…like my keys!I’ve looked everywhere…not there.My glasses…gone again!Can’t even see to find them.Annoying bother!And who sang that song? I’ve lost it;on the tip of my tongue.The cat’s disappearedand where’s that damned receipt?So hard to find all these thingsI’m missing.And where, exactly,are my mother and father?
Speaking of poignant, well done, Gary. Thanks for sharing them here.
What I want to know, William, is how did you know that the day before Mother's Day someone bearing an armful of lilacs boarded the city bus I was riding and I immediately knew I had to buy some and bring them to my mother as a gift? The scent of lilacs can indeed be like a thought that doesn't last, but it can also convey so much meaning while it lingers. On Mother's Day my mom watered them and we sat on the couch together and both raised our noses and closed our eyes as they sent us their brief dense airborne thanks, like mine to her for all she has done to nourish me.
Gabriella, without a doubt, your words here are another poem. Through them, the gift you gave your mother, and that she gave you, is given again. My turn to inhale.
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