Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
Absolutely beautiful, William...I feel as though I am visiting the resting placeof that soul lying within.I wonder if it is called a "resting place" becauseone's soul is just resting, waiting, to join the other souls in heaven~
Perhaps because of that; and, I suppose, for as many reasons as there are of us who visit. Thank you, Jan. Here’s to a peaceful Sunday.
This has got to stop, Mr. Michaelian! It isn’t fair. It’s almost cruel. I tried to give up poetry over six years ago and look what you do. I drop in to visit, just to say hello, and you inspire me yet again.Anyway, since I left you two tree poems before, I guess I can leave you with a couple of flower poems. Thanks a lot, pal! I tried to quit.Plastic FlowersLittle pot of plastic flowerson the front porch table.They look so realistic, two or threedifferent kinds and colorscomplete with perfect little plasticstems and thorns and leaves.A genuine spray of thesewould cost a pretty dime.But you can tell that these aren’t realbecause they’re growing dingy,becoming dull, coated with grime,neglected by time and dusty.Not like the real ones, fresh and clean,a rainbow of petals and growth, leavesglowing with living, vibrant green.You can always tell the real onesbecause one day they aren’t there.Copyright 2010 – Ponds and Lawns: New and Corrected Poems, Gary B. FitzgeraldA FlowerSuch a simple thing,just a flower;petals and pistil and stamen,a scent and a color,a bloom and some seeds.Just a stem and some leaves,growing, absorbing, reflectingthe light, some roots takingwater from soil.Just xylem and phloem, somemembranes and tissue and cells,a nucleus, some organelles,green chloroplasts transformingthe sun into starches and sugars,just chlorophyll, moleculesof elements and atoms builtof protons and electrons,muons and quarks, made of wavesand strings and fields of timeand space and energy and chance.It’s really quite simple.Just a flower.Copyright 2008 – HARDWOOD: 77 Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald
Quit all you like, it won’t quit you. But of course I don’t believe you one bit, although you might have convinced yourself temporarily, momentarily, contrarily, that you and poetry don’t fit. What a laugh. What grit. It’s really quite simple: these are just flower poems: yet how lovely, from here where I sit.
Post a Comment