Sunday, May 8, 2011

Sunday’s Child

To be my mother’s lilac,
and for her to somehow know it

like its scent, a thought that
cannot last for long

From Poems, Slightly Used. Also shared here two years ago.


Denise Scaramai said...

...what beautiful words!


William Michaelian said...

Greetings, Denise. Thank you!

Old 333 said...

Very fine and sweet, William; although the term is overused, poignant. Thanks for this.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Peter. To paraphrase Emerson, every word was once a poem. That’s still true, I think, and poignantly so.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...



A 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 poetry
and horses and song and after all those years
of 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 Earth
it’s basically the same.

Missing Things

So 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 disappeared
and where’s that damned receipt?
So hard to find all these things
I’m missing.
And where, exactly,
are my mother and father?

William Michaelian said...

Speaking of poignant, well done, Gary. Thanks for sharing them here.

Two Tigers said...

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.

William Michaelian said...

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.