Michael Coleman
@mjgc.bsky.social
Posting poetry for the soul.
Musician, poet, outdoorsy, mystic, connector, Californian, father, partner, mentor, elder.
Musician, poet, outdoorsy, mystic, connector, Californian, father, partner, mentor, elder.
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
1/2
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
1/2
November 10, 2025 at 4:12 PM
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
1/2
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
1/2
“Your doubt may become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become critical. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perplexed and embarrassed perhaps, or perhaps rebellious.
1/2
1/2
October 30, 2025 at 5:20 PM
“Your doubt may become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become critical. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perplexed and embarrassed perhaps, or perhaps rebellious.
1/2
1/2
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
1/3
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
1/3
October 26, 2025 at 6:39 PM
A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
1/3
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.
1/3
Who knows what is going on on the other side of each hour?
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind the mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off was already a golden body full of thunder!
The rose was poison.
The sword gave life.
1/2
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind the mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off was already a golden body full of thunder!
The rose was poison.
The sword gave life.
1/2
October 23, 2025 at 3:45 PM
Who knows what is going on on the other side of each hour?
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind the mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off was already a golden body full of thunder!
The rose was poison.
The sword gave life.
1/2
How many times the sunrise was
there, behind the mountain!
How many times the brilliant cloud piling up far off was already a golden body full of thunder!
The rose was poison.
The sword gave life.
1/2
you are a miracle in motion
i greet you with wonder
in a world which seeks to own
your joy and your imagination
you have chosen to be free,
every day, as a practice.
i can never know
the struggles you went through to get here,
but i know you have swum upstream
and at times it has been lonely
.
1/3
i greet you with wonder
in a world which seeks to own
your joy and your imagination
you have chosen to be free,
every day, as a practice.
i can never know
the struggles you went through to get here,
but i know you have swum upstream
and at times it has been lonely
.
1/3
October 10, 2025 at 3:01 PM
you are a miracle in motion
i greet you with wonder
in a world which seeks to own
your joy and your imagination
you have chosen to be free,
every day, as a practice.
i can never know
the struggles you went through to get here,
but i know you have swum upstream
and at times it has been lonely
.
1/3
i greet you with wonder
in a world which seeks to own
your joy and your imagination
you have chosen to be free,
every day, as a practice.
i can never know
the struggles you went through to get here,
but i know you have swum upstream
and at times it has been lonely
.
1/3
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say, drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
1/2
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say, drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
1/2
October 3, 2025 at 3:26 PM
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say, drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
1/2
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say, drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
1/2
Start seeing everything as God
But keep it a secret
Become like one who is awestruck
and nourished, listening to a golden nightingale
sing in a beautiful foreign language
while God nests invisibly upon its tongue.
1/2
But keep it a secret
Become like one who is awestruck
and nourished, listening to a golden nightingale
sing in a beautiful foreign language
while God nests invisibly upon its tongue.
1/2
October 2, 2025 at 4:29 PM
Start seeing everything as God
But keep it a secret
Become like one who is awestruck
and nourished, listening to a golden nightingale
sing in a beautiful foreign language
while God nests invisibly upon its tongue.
1/2
But keep it a secret
Become like one who is awestruck
and nourished, listening to a golden nightingale
sing in a beautiful foreign language
while God nests invisibly upon its tongue.
1/2
-Breathe, said the wind.-
How can I breathe at a time like this,
when the air is full of the smoke
of burning tires, burning lives?
-Just breathe, the wind insisted.-
Easy for you to say, if the weight of
injustice is not wrapped around
your throat, cutting off air.
-I need you to breathe.-
1/2
How can I breathe at a time like this,
when the air is full of the smoke
of burning tires, burning lives?
-Just breathe, the wind insisted.-
Easy for you to say, if the weight of
injustice is not wrapped around
your throat, cutting off air.
-I need you to breathe.-
1/2
October 1, 2025 at 8:42 PM
-Breathe, said the wind.-
How can I breathe at a time like this,
when the air is full of the smoke
of burning tires, burning lives?
-Just breathe, the wind insisted.-
Easy for you to say, if the weight of
injustice is not wrapped around
your throat, cutting off air.
-I need you to breathe.-
1/2
How can I breathe at a time like this,
when the air is full of the smoke
of burning tires, burning lives?
-Just breathe, the wind insisted.-
Easy for you to say, if the weight of
injustice is not wrapped around
your throat, cutting off air.
-I need you to breathe.-
1/2
“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only …
1/3
1/3
September 30, 2025 at 3:53 PM
“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only …
1/3
1/3
Be the cup that holds
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
September 29, 2025 at 2:24 PM
Be the cup that holds
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
Be the cup that holds
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
September 29, 2025 at 2:24 PM
Be the cup that holds
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
the candle. Be the wax,
the wick, the flip of the
wrist that lights the match.
Most of all, be the flame.
Draw on the source
of light, acknowledging
that without darkness
candles would be
useless things indeed.
~Danna Faulds, "Without Darkness"
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
1/3
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
1/3
September 29, 2025 at 3:23 AM
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
1/3
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
1/3
Whether in daytime or in nighttime
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
~ Anna Swir
#poetry
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
~ Anna Swir
#poetry
August 20, 2025 at 11:31 PM
Whether in daytime or in nighttime
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
~ Anna Swir
#poetry
I always carry inside
a light.
In the middle of noise and turmoil
I carry silence.
Always
I carry light and silence.
~ Anna Swir
#poetry
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
1/3 #poetry
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
1/3 #poetry
August 1, 2025 at 3:04 PM
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
1/3 #poetry
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
1/3 #poetry
Such richness flowing
through the branches of summer and into
the body, carried inward on the five
rivers! Disorder and astonishment
rattle your thoughts and your heart
cries for rest but don’t
succumb, there’s nothing
so sensible as sensual inundation. Joy
1/2 #poetry
through the branches of summer and into
the body, carried inward on the five
rivers! Disorder and astonishment
rattle your thoughts and your heart
cries for rest but don’t
succumb, there’s nothing
so sensible as sensual inundation. Joy
1/2 #poetry
July 31, 2025 at 8:46 PM
Such richness flowing
through the branches of summer and into
the body, carried inward on the five
rivers! Disorder and astonishment
rattle your thoughts and your heart
cries for rest but don’t
succumb, there’s nothing
so sensible as sensual inundation. Joy
1/2 #poetry
through the branches of summer and into
the body, carried inward on the five
rivers! Disorder and astonishment
rattle your thoughts and your heart
cries for rest but don’t
succumb, there’s nothing
so sensible as sensual inundation. Joy
1/2 #poetry
Having loved enough and lost enough,
I am no longer searching,
just opening.
No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations that rub into a pearl
1/4
I am no longer searching,
just opening.
No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations that rub into a pearl
1/4
July 30, 2025 at 5:49 PM
Having loved enough and lost enough,
I am no longer searching,
just opening.
No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations that rub into a pearl
1/4
I am no longer searching,
just opening.
No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations that rub into a pearl
1/4
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
1/4
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
1/4
June 28, 2025 at 2:34 PM
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
1/4
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
1/4
It was all the clods at once become
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
1/3 #poetry
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
1/3 #poetry
June 11, 2025 at 4:34 PM
It was all the clods at once become
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
1/3 #poetry
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands, the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
1/3 #poetry
How to Avoid Mixing Your Metaphors
It’s not rocket surgery.
First, get all your ducks on the same page.
After all, you can’t make an omelette
without breaking stride.
1/3 #poetry
It’s not rocket surgery.
First, get all your ducks on the same page.
After all, you can’t make an omelette
without breaking stride.
1/3 #poetry
June 5, 2025 at 3:05 PM
How to Avoid Mixing Your Metaphors
It’s not rocket surgery.
First, get all your ducks on the same page.
After all, you can’t make an omelette
without breaking stride.
1/3 #poetry
It’s not rocket surgery.
First, get all your ducks on the same page.
After all, you can’t make an omelette
without breaking stride.
1/3 #poetry
Everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, “Love Song”
transl Stephen Mitchell
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, “Love Song”
transl Stephen Mitchell
June 4, 2025 at 2:04 PM
Everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, “Love Song”
transl Stephen Mitchell
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, “Love Song”
transl Stephen Mitchell
Every breath taken in by the man
Who loves, and the woman who loves,
Goes to fill the water tank
Where the spirit horses drink.
~Robert Bly
Who loves, and the woman who loves,
Goes to fill the water tank
Where the spirit horses drink.
~Robert Bly
June 3, 2025 at 3:02 AM
Every breath taken in by the man
Who loves, and the woman who loves,
Goes to fill the water tank
Where the spirit horses drink.
~Robert Bly
Who loves, and the woman who loves,
Goes to fill the water tank
Where the spirit horses drink.
~Robert Bly
Oh our Mother the Earth, oh our Father the Sky
Your children are we, and with tired backs
We bring you the gifts that you love.
Then weave for us a garment of brightness;
May the warp be the white light of morning,
May the weft be the red light of evening,
May the fringes be the falling rain,
1/2
Your children are we, and with tired backs
We bring you the gifts that you love.
Then weave for us a garment of brightness;
May the warp be the white light of morning,
May the weft be the red light of evening,
May the fringes be the falling rain,
1/2
May 29, 2025 at 7:39 PM
Oh our Mother the Earth, oh our Father the Sky
Your children are we, and with tired backs
We bring you the gifts that you love.
Then weave for us a garment of brightness;
May the warp be the white light of morning,
May the weft be the red light of evening,
May the fringes be the falling rain,
1/2
Your children are we, and with tired backs
We bring you the gifts that you love.
Then weave for us a garment of brightness;
May the warp be the white light of morning,
May the weft be the red light of evening,
May the fringes be the falling rain,
1/2
No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.
1/5 #poetry
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.
1/5 #poetry
May 27, 2025 at 11:56 PM
No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.
1/5 #poetry
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.
1/5 #poetry
I like to live in the sound of water,
In the feel of mountain air. A sharp
Reminder hits me: this world is still alive;
It stretches out there shivering toward it’s own
Creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
Enters into the elaborate give-and-take,
1/2
In the feel of mountain air. A sharp
Reminder hits me: this world is still alive;
It stretches out there shivering toward it’s own
Creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
Enters into the elaborate give-and-take,
1/2
May 24, 2025 at 4:57 AM
I like to live in the sound of water,
In the feel of mountain air. A sharp
Reminder hits me: this world is still alive;
It stretches out there shivering toward it’s own
Creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
Enters into the elaborate give-and-take,
1/2
In the feel of mountain air. A sharp
Reminder hits me: this world is still alive;
It stretches out there shivering toward it’s own
Creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
Enters into the elaborate give-and-take,
1/2
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
~William Blake
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
~William Blake
May 18, 2025 at 12:19 PM
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
~William Blake
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
~William Blake