Poetry by Michael Simon



Perhaps a bird does not conclude
it will fly or it will fall; it flies, falls.

Open to loneliness, what darkness
can I enter alone? Resistant
to loneliness, am I not moved
to seek the light of support, of the known?

Open to learning, who am I
to see or say for another?
Resistant to learning, am I not moved
to teach others, to praise method’s stasis?

Clearly we are not birds, though we
fly, fall. Clearly we know where we’re headed.

Poetry by Michael Simon


I am made up of lies,
of partial-truths, of bone

and belief, of projection
which lays out before me a path

of both comfort and discomfort.
Yet ask me who I am or what I do

and I’ll tell you, not because I know
but because you’ve asked,

and I don’t want to appear
impolite. I

don’t want you to get
the wrong idea.

“Mindful” by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or I hear
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations,
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?