Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How

People are more important 
For Who, What, When, Where, and Why,
Than they are for How.

Who a person is inside
Is more important
Than How they appear outside.

What a person does
Is more important
Than How well they do it.

When a person takes a step forward
Is more important
Than How well they walk.

Where a person travels on the road of life
Is more important
Than How they travel.

Why a person helps others
Is more important
Than How they help.

People are more important 
For Who, What, When, Where, and Why,
Than they are for How.

But there is one exception.
How hard we try to understand others
Is very important.

By: Michael Williams / Nov. 29, 2001

Nature's Lawn

Tracking endlessly, up on high,
golden sun dots a gemlike sky,
a twinkle in a diamond's eye.

A trackless swath of verdant green
lies undisturbed on springtime e'en,
a hush of beauty seldom seen.

Amid splendor of Nature's lawn,
to velvet dusk from crystal dawn,
unseen hides a trembling small fawn.

A squirrel flits from tree to ground,
darts, starts, and stops to look around.
Another winter's nut is found.

Caterpillar crawls in a tree,
colored so predators ne'er see,
bright-winged butterfly soon will be.

Birds take sky from nested thatching;
worm and insect prey they're catching
to feed nestlings now a-hatching.

Is glory waste if such a scene
goes all by human eyes unseen?
No, it's enough that it has been.

By: Michael Williams / Feb. 1, 2003

Columbia – In Memoriam

We are but human, we who fly
mounted on flames, into the sky;
we who soar impossibly high,
to do our work above the sky.
We are but human, but we dare
to do the deeds that others scare;
working, playing, and taking care
of duty in conditions spare.
We are but human, yet we keep
to our schedules while others sleep;
o’er mountain tall and ocean deep,
rewards of toils and efforts reap.
We are but human, we can die
when best laid plans go all awry.
Yet we will cheer when others try,
and rise, undaunted, to the sky.

By: Michael Williams / Feb. 2, 2003

A Poet's Payoff

No rhymer's ever been kept very long,
from poetic work or parodied song.
At some times though, the effort expended,
takes more creative juice than intended.

Though the batteries of the mind get drained,
and much power is spent, much more is gained
when the result is such that, rough or fine,
one can e'er look back to say "That one's mine."

By: Michael Williams / Feb. 21, 2003

Still Life in Snow

Spread like a sheet of pearl below,
Illumined in moonlight’s pale glow,
A blanket of new-fallen snow.
Though all in view may seem pristine,
Examination of this scene
Shows much that was at first unseen.
On a small branch, the coat of snow,
Disturbed where tiny bird feet go,
Has slipped, fallen to land below.
In the bushes and in the trees, 
Smaller branches, in a light breeze:
The snow coat dances, floats, and flees.
Tiny tracks of tiny creature,
Along well-worn path a feature,
Searched for food, as is its nature.
Rabbit tracks go undercover.
Peer under bush and discover
What won’t be seen looking over.
Top layer of snow turned to ice
As cover more than will suffice
For tunnels of clandestine mice. 
Wolves and foxes have prowled around,
Questing for prey along the ground.
Some has escaped and some was found.
All this and more’s displayed to view,
Though it is seen by very few.
Come seeking, you can see it too.

By: Michael Williams / Feb. 28, 2003

Spring Morning

Sunlight heralds a newborn day:
No cloud bars its brightening ray.
Morning mist soon will burn away.
Verdant green, far as eye can view,
With blossoms of every hue
Dotting the scene, agleam with dew.
Birdsong trills from a nearby tree,
An echo of serenity,
And other songs there soon will be. 
A questing bee roams bloom to bloom,
A spider weaves as on a loom,
And rabbits dig an earthen room.
Streamlet burbles, chuckles, and drains
Aftermath of yesterday’s rains,
A sound like music’s distant strains.
All of Nature stretches and wakes,
And off the winter doldrums shakes:
What difference a few days makes.

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 13, 2003

Whatever You Do, Do Not Shut Up

I look around the world today
And wonder if it’s safe to say
What I think, or if best to stay
Silent until another day.
The world is getting louder fast,
Some say the die is all but cast
And running ideas up a mast
Will get you nothing but a blast
Of rude, vehement rhetoric
Heated enough to make you sick,
To make you give it up and pick
Another topic, double quick.
Yet I think it’s e’en more needful
To try to say something useful
As the clime becomes more dreadful,
To not give in and be woeful.
So when the world is yelling loud
Do not just blend into the crowd.
Have your opinion, don’t be cowed.
Just say your piece and say it proud.

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 18, 2003

"Word Pair Poetry"

The first piece here is a poem which I wrote back during my college days, and reworked to post here. It was a form of poetry which I tried writing for a while, and have picked up again. I don't know what it's really called or if it even has a name, but I call it "Word Pair Poetry." My rules for this poem form are:

1. Two words per line
2. No punctuation, except for emphasis
3. Avoid full sentences, relying instead on the word pairs to convey the meaning, if possible.
4. This last isn't exactly a rule, but you'll notice I use two-word titles as well.

The Moment

Young child
Sits happily
Carefree day
Joyous play
Sudden change
Play stops
Toy drops
Lip pouts
Face clouds
Tear trickles
Great Tragedy
Just remembered
School starts
Next week

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 28, 2003

Spring's Here

Laughing sky
New grass
Robins hop
Rabbits dance
Finches sing
Familiar tune
Hummingbirds soon

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 28, 2003

Best Buddy

Little child
Giant bear
Cuddly buddy
Always there
Getting tired
Needing nap
Sleepy child
Fuzzy bear
All's quiet
Mommy peeks
Loving smile
Beloved child
Bear's lap
Snuggled up
Fast asleep

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 28, 2003

To the Love of My Life – My Wife

When you appeared, back on that day
I was, as I did seem,
Too stunned to find the words to say:
How’d you escape my dream?

When in my dreams I saw you there, 
I never stopped to think
Just who or what you were or where, 
And then I had to blink.

You vanished then out of my view,
No longer to be seen;
And, though I searched my dreams all through,
‘Twas like you’d never been.

In memory I’d feel your touch,
So soft upon my skin:
Yet when I’d reach to do as much,
You would be gone again.

So when you sat in living view,
I was stricken a mute.
I groped for words to say to you:
The silence grew acute. 

Then when at last I found my voice,
I mumbled something lame. 
Thank God, you laughed, and made the choice:
Into my life you came. 

The joy I feel, I can’t compare
To any else I know.
Always believe that I do care: 
And please, don’t ever go.

By: Michael Williams / Mar. 31, 2003

Which Way to Live?

"Live each day as if it's your last?"
What kind of shadow would that cast?
Would it your perceptions color,
Change your priorities' order?
Would you alter the things you'd do,
And act in ways that are not you?
In short, would how you live your life
Be changed and cause you needless strife?
Instead, think how it's come to pass
For you since you were lad or lass,
As you'd start a new adventure.
Remember that sense of wonder:
Seeing your life as a bud in bloom,
Instead of as impending doom.
Such a view, to me, is fitter
With emotions that are better.
So let us now the pattern burst,
And live each day like it's our first.

By: Michael Williams / April 2, 2003

Night Road

Driving late
Rainy evening
Gloom absorbs
Headlamp light
Strained vision
Shadow ahead
Suddenly seen
Braking hard
Stopped short
Oh! Deer!

By: Michael Williams / April 3, 2003

Winged Warrior

Taking wing, and afloat on high,
An altered view of Earth and sky,
Looking hurricanes in the eye.
Swoop and wheel, bank and dive, then soar
Aloft to do it all once more,
With thunder an approving roar.
A powered thrust of lightning flame
And enemies flee the way they came,
With my mark graven on their frame.
Embraced within the sky I love,
At equal ease with hawk or dove,
A sentinel, I soar above.

By: Michael Williams / April 4, 2003

Spring Rain

Steady patter of morning rain,
Thrumming a beat on grass and grain,
Cools the senses and calms the brain.
The scent of air, cleansed by rainfall,
Gives a feel of freshness to all,
And holds time still in nature's thrall.
Amid the rainbeat, quiet bird,
Waiting, under cover sheltered,
Lets out a chirp, timid but heard.
Rain's sound gives all a soft surcease,
Lets fears relax, tensions release,
And brings to all both life and peace.

By: Michael Williams / April 8, 2003

Sweet Kitten

Downy soft
Fur clad
Lightning ball
Romping rampage
All's toys
Must play
Kitten tag
"You're it!"
Once sick
Twice feisty
"Little Rounder!"

By: Michael Williams / April 9, 2003

Sweet Little Kitten

Tabby gray and snow white, that's her,
Snuggle against your hand and purr,
A tiny waif in downy fur.
When she drops her innocent ploy,
Everything becomes a toy,
And she attacks with raucous joy.
Four-legged scamp in furry pants,
She looks at you, her eyes just dance,
Mischief in her every glance.
If toes in blankets dare wiggle,
Smallest twitch or slightest jiggle,
She will pounce - do kittens giggle?
Romping rampage from room to hall,
Kitten-carom from wall to wall,
Tag - you're it! - then dash away all.
She's named Mellow, but we've found her
Quick and feisty - she's a rounder!
She is very much a charmer,
Such an endearing little pest: 
When she behaves her very best,
We soon forgive her all the rest.

By: Michael Williams / April 10, 2003

What Season Was This?

Winds blowing cold, hard-edged and mean,
cutting like razors sharp and keen,
stab into clothes like knives unseen.

Duck your head and protect your face;
an icy blast hits like a mace. 
You're longing for a sheltered place.

Temperatures, hovering low,
are worsened by the frigid blow.
Wait a minute, did I see snow?

A warmer coat, I pray you, bring,
and tell me just one little thing:
isn't this supposed to be spring?

By: Michael Williams / April 10, 2003

Chess Cool

Sixty-four squares
Thirty-two pieces
Cool Logic
Ordered moves
White – Black
White – Black
Nothing random
Luck nonexistent
White – Black
Reason’s passion
Lifetime pursuit
White – Black
White – Checkmate

By: Michael Williams / April 17, 2003

Phantom Wordsmith

There's a phantom wordsmith,
Who lives inside my skull. 
When he's rhyming herewith,
It's very rarely dull.
A watch he does not own:
At least that's how it seems.
Some nights he's even sown
His rhymes within my dreams.
Late hours he is keeping
Are causing me to dread.
I'd rather be sleeping 
When lying in my bed.
Maybe quiet nighttime
Just makes this fellow bored:
Else the peaceful night clime
Perhaps does strike a chord.
The time it matters naught,
Nor events transpiring,
When phantom wordsmith's thought
Is of rhymes inspiring.
Then what he has started,
I find I must complete.
Other plans are thwarted,
And sleep cannot compete. 

By: Michael Williams / April 19, 2003

Daybreak

Silver dawn, glint of crystal light
catches the eye, gleaming so bright
from prismed leaves dew-kissed by night.

Morning's first rays stretch shadows long.
Lilac-swept air is fragranced strong,
and lightly tinted with birdsong.

Contentment in a zephyr, meet;
No other day-time can compete
with morning's breezes fresh and sweet.

With sense-appealing purity,
morning's bright air has clarity
which else times is a rarity.

Though those up late may wearily
greet daybreak somewhat drearily,
the birds announce it cheerily.

By: Michael Williams / April 23, 2003

Foggy Night - Take One

Moon hides
Misty shrouds
Street lamps
Illuminated pools
Muffled light
Muslin-screened
Drifting wisps
Smoky mist
Shifting shapes
Trick vision
Imagination overdrive
Colors fade
Gray shades
Forties cinema
Mysteries reborn
Swirling mists
Silver screen
Classic setting
Film Noir
Cue scene
Camera - action
Enter Bogie

By: Michael Williams / April 26, 2003

Foggy Night - Take Two

The moon hides in misty shrouds.
Street lamps form illuminated pools
of muffled light, muslin-screened.
Drifting wisps of smoky mist 
form shifting shapes to trick the vision:
imagination kicks into overdrive.
All around, colors fade into gray shades; 
the forties' cinema mysteries are reborn.
Swirling mists recreate the silver screen
and phantom players take their places.
It's a classic setting for Film Noir. 
Cue the scene: lights - camera - action,
and enter Bogie.

By: Michael Williams / April 26, 2003

Deer Encounter

Solitary deer
Roadside sentinel
Standing stone
Pickup approaching
Slowing braking
Occupant watching
Deer watching
Pickup creeping
Tension breaks
Deer bolts 
Moment lost
Pickup accelerates

By: Michael Williams / April 28, 2003

Morning Fog

A lazy haze comes drifting by
All but outlines are hard to spy,
The Sun a blurred blob in the sky.
Mist into your doorway will spill,
Cling to you as spider webs will,
All outdoors is eerily still.
Sense of time is completely tossed,
Move quickly and bearings are lost,
Travel slows down to avoid that cost.
Surrounded, blinded, still you'd swear,
All while moving with utmost care,
That morning is out there somewhere.

By: Michael Williams / April 29, 2003

Write From Your Heart

There are those who say writing is an art,
You will either "have it" or else you won't.
The talent is a gift: work plays no part.
While it might be pleasing to agree, I don't.
It may seem just so to an outside view,
But nothing's just delivered "on a cart."
Inspiration plays a part, that is true,
But needed more are knowledge, work, and heart.
The important part of any writing 
Is the element lying within you.
What makes your work of writing inviting
Is what you have lived, and have learned, and do.
Writers are often thought a breed apart,
With lives so different and exciting,
That surely it must, like magic, impart
Inspiration to power their writing.
But being inspired goes only so far,
And cannot itself create works of art.
Writers must draw deeply from what they are,
For the greatest writing comes from the heart.

By: Michael Williams / May 1, 2003

Tin Roof Rain

On tin roofs rain beats a thrumming,
An obsessive drummer's drumming,
That will set a brain to humming.
Some find tin roof rhythms vexing,
Monotony all thought taxing.
Others find rain-beats relaxing.
Tin roof rain is a peaceful sound,
For reflection, sonic background,
Outside, the world still spins around.
Inside there is a slower pace,
A respite from the frantic race,
Wherein the soul can find its space.

By: Michael Williams / May 3, 2003

Booming Rain

Starless overcast
Streaking flash
Momentary daylight
Booming crescendo
Droplets pitter
Drops patter
Downpour drums
Vertical lines
Liquid wall
Strobing crashes
Sonic assault
Drops patter
Droplets pitter
Clouds pass
Stars wink

By: Michael Williams / May 6, 2003

Driving Home

No stars
No Moon
Long trip
Lonely road
Rain-dampened
Headlights pale
Eyes strain
Secret weapon
Disc changer
Four discs
Gospel music
Crank volume
Sing along
Joyful noise
Never alone
Unseen Companion
Comfortable peace
Miles melt
Home driveway
Uneventful trip
Praise God

By: Michael Williams / May 8, 2003

As My Wife Nears Her Second Degree

I look into your light green eyes,
So deep that I could fall right in,
But their tranquility belies
The emotions that lie within.
The deeper passions that you feel,
Intensity that drives your soul, 
Rolling you forward like a wheel,
Powering you toward your goal.
Frustration is not a stranger,
But there's at length nothing to fear,
For there never is a danger
That you will fail to persevere.
Odds may look overpowering,
That bar from what you want to do,
But with drive I find inspiring,
Nothing long gets the best of you.
As I bring this to an ending,
Let me explain this, clear and loud:
My love, I am not pretending
When I tell you I'm very proud.

By: Michael Williams / May 11, 2003

Past Times and Lifetimes

Remembering brings smiles to me,
I’d live inside your eyes and arms,
and we’d kiss with intensity
enough to set off fire alarms.

We’ve lived a while, and loved a while,
a marriage truer and longer
than others thought and we can smile,
our love has only grown stronger.

How we express ourselves is not
the same as our former fashion;
but lack of acts of ardor hot
does not mean there is less passion.

Love, as a fire, can burn two ways:
one flares up, raging hot and wild,
years burned through in as many days;
the other, by contrast, seems mild. 

This love can burn in ways as strong
with flame more settled and purer,
deep in the soul and lasting long
forging life and love much surer.

For us, between these love-kinds two,
the longer is the better choice.
and I will sing my love to you
for as long as my soul has voice.

By: Michael Williams / May 12, 2003

Write Here, Write Now

Serious poems? What a bore!
Stop me before I read some more.
The stuff just petrifies my core.
Light and airy, now there's the thing.
Give me something pleasant to sing,
A bit of fluff with lyric ring.
I like to write what I find light,
Of morning fog or birds in flight,
Or driving on a rainy night. 
Serious won't oft light a fuse,
I guess I have a flighty muse.
On that charge you can say j'accuse
And be sure I'll cop a plea.
Writing is therapy for me:
I paint the world I want to see. 
Others want me to stop and hark,
Saying that life is often stark,
Gritty, moody, dismal, and dark.
That's true; I will not dispute it,
There's no way I could refute it,
No point trying to confute it.
So WHAT? Does that mean no other
Topic is worth any bother?
Oh, go on, tell me another.
I'll write light verse if I please,
Of rain and birds and sun and trees,
And branches dancing in a breeze.
If that thought appeals not to you,
There's one thing you can choose to do:
Go read someone who thinks like you.

By: Michael Williams / May 17, 2003

Nightmare Sea

Aloft aboard a bucking ship,
athwart a white-maned roaring sea,
even your toes seek for a grip
'fore mad-horse waves can pitch you free.

Rearing wave like a mustang head,
flaring nostrils and sea-foam mane,
looks back with eye all ghostly dead,
arches and throws the ship again.

A moment's lapse is instant doom,
no prayer of mercy given;
plunged into the foaming gloom
or against the decking driven.

Cling fast and fight with flapping sheets,
fist and furl and secure the sail
while lashing wind against you beats,
and whips the rain into a gale.

When at last you descend to deck,
the vital duty completed,
you've bought a chance the ship won't wreck
with life force nearly depleted.

Cling fast and claw your way below
for a moment of hard-earned rest;
knowing, when called, again you'll go
aloft to face another test.

By: Michael Williams / May 24, 2003

Ah, Youth

A family trip in a year gone by, 
Driving to Florida with a young child, 
Four years old, headed for five.
A stop en route, along the Gulf of Mexico,
Some time to rest and stretch, 
And see the sea for the first time.
An empty stretch of sandy shore,
The mother, father, and child,
And a sunny day to warm them.
Light waves stroke the beach.
A wave runs out.
The child runs out. 
A wave runs in.
Whoops...
Father, get the suitcase.

By: Michael Williams / May 28, 2003

Shaded Woods

Bright warmth
Grassy glade
Cool depth
Tall trees
Deserted path
Slow walk
No destination
No plans
Drifting thoughts
Faraway cares
Serene moment

By: Michael Williams / May 29, 2003

This is based off a couple of lines from my earlier poem "Sweet Little Kitten."

A Cat Named Mellow

She looks at you, her eyes just dance.
Though she may sweetly lie and purr,
There's mischief in her darting glance. 
She's mayhem clothed in silky fur.
She romps and rattles all the walls,
Pure chaos in a joyous burst.
And if you're walking down the halls,
Watch your feet! She'll get there first.
Kittenly small, but catly strong,
And charging off at slightest peep;
She's never still for very long,
Unless, of course, she's fast asleep.

By: Michael Williams / May 29, 2003

Renegade Rhyming

It’s more than a body can reasonably stand,
A renegade rhymer running loose through the land.
Dishing out his couplets with reckless abandon,
Even if it means dragging in Michael Landon.
His rhymes are appearing like cheap legerdemain,
And even good earplugs cannot soften the pain.
Verses pile up in drifts, like snow or confetti
(And where there is snow, there might just be a yeti).
He’s tending his lines like a malevolent nurse,
And whatever was better can always get verse.
Such perilous poems precious few can abide,
But when rhymes get flowing, there is nowhere to hide.
When this ghost-ship of the rhymed gets well under weigh,
He might even go pulling in Santa Claus’ sleigh -
And should this rhymer turn a daft hand to wordplay,
You had best turnip again on some other day.
Poets by the millions his verses have bettered,
But his penchant for rhyming remains unfettered.
This versified fellow can be pretty painful.
It’s certain his couplets will never be gainful.
Still, if enthusiasm can e'er win the day,
Then this renegade rhymer is well on his way.

By: Michael Williams / May 31, 2003

Pushing Fifty

"Pushing fifty," a time in phrase
When finger-painting nature plays,
Sneak-streaking hair with shades of grays.

Half-century wrapped in a day,
From first cry to cried yesterday,
With vignettes added on the way.

Milestone and millstone mark of life:
Questions answered and questions rife,
Swaying balance of peace and strife.

"Pushing fifty," defining stage?
Final fixture as sap or sage?
Neither, friend, just a day and age.

By: Michael Williams / June 4, 2003

Escape From Destiny

Certain thinkers declare each life
is recorded as on a slate;
each episode of joy or strife
was written by the Hand of Fate.

Some find a path to calm and peace
by firm belief in fateful claim.
In each event is this release:
they're ultimately not to blame.

I believe in a God who sees
my life in whole from first to last.
Some say knowing means He decrees
every step; their fate is cast.

Though God sees all in crystal light
and my every breath is known; 
when I make choices in His sight,
those decisions are mine alone.

So stay the Hand of Destiny,
its iron grip on life abate.
Each breath and step is wholly free,
the hand is ours that shapes our fate. 

A time shall come when all will see
that this cold harbinger of harm,
the bony Hand of Destiny,
in truth was just a fossil arm.

By: Michael Williams / June 6, 2003

You Brought What?

In Heaven, so by song we’re told,
The streets are paved with purest gold.
But persons with wealth while alive
To take it with them have the drive.
If the song’s true, then ponder why
They’d want more pavement when they die.

By: Michael Williams / June 6, 2003

Background for One Thousand Men: On the night of August 13-14, 1945 in Japan, Emperor Hirohito prepared to go record his message of surrender for the Japanese people. A coup led by officers of his army waited to intercept him and place him under house arrest to prevent his recording the message. Their intent was to continue the war, issuing orders in the Emperor's name. As they waited, a flight of B-29's on what would be the last bombing raid of the war passed over Tokyo, triggering a lights-out that threw everything into disarray. Emperor Hirohito's departure was delayed, and the leaders of the coup decided to seek more support to surround and move inside the palace itself to carry out their plan. While the leaders were gone, the Emperor's car approached and the waiting men let it pass. More would yet transpire before the coup ultimately failed and the Emperor's message announcing the surrender was broadcast at noon on August 14, 1945, but this event was pivotal. Had the Emperor been stopped and detained, and the message never recorded, the surrender could not have been broadcast. A success by the coup at this point might have caused events to unfold differently - with the result that the war would have continued, costing untold thousands, perhaps millions, more lives.

"It's the small events unnoticed at the time that later are discovered to have changed history." ---- President Harry S. Truman

One Thousand Men

One thousand men and their leaders
Wait in the night,
To intercept the passage of one car
Bearing their Emperor.
Their aim is to detain him,
To prevent his recording 
A message of surrender
Which will change their lives
From that which they have known
Forever.
A bombing raid passes over.
All lights are darkened.
There is confusion,
The Emperor does not come.
The leaders of the coup depart
Seeking more support 
To surround and take over the palace.
One thousand men wait.
Without warning,
The Emperor's car approaches.
The car should be stopped,
But the leaders are not there.
Any one man stepping out,
Would galvanize the rest.
But what if the car does not stop?
One thousand men stand poised
On the brink of the future.
Each man looking inward,
Asking: Would I kill my emperor?
Each man answering: Not I.
The car passes unmolested.
The surrender message is recorded. 
One thousand men become part of history.

By: Michael Williams / June 8, 2003

Dance to Order

If Order was a dance mistress
All of the world would soon fall ill,
Driven to a state of distress
By Madame Order's dancing drill.

Order's stepped cadence to express
Her rigid rules would give no thrill.
The sweet taste of Order's newness
Would soon become a bitter pill. 

Do not march to Order's excess, 
Hearken not to that siren trill.
Bend a little from her stiffness,
And keep a little Chaos still.

By: Michael Williams / June 9, 2003

I Type Therefore I Am?

Marshall McLuhan proclaimed
"The medium is the message."
For a long time, 
I thought the statement rather silly. 
Now, I look around,
And I’m no longer quite so smug.
Things merge in ways
The child-me never could have expected.

Communication is changed
By the options open for communicating,
And language is changed
By the method chosen for expression.
The medium has become
More than the message: the messenger too.
Increasingly, we become
Inextricable from our tools of communication.

McLuhan had it right,
But probably didn’t take it far enough.

By: Michael Williams / June 14, 2003

A Bike Ride Too Far

In the summer 
before my twelfth birthday
a friend convinced me, 
to sneak off, 
after my mother had said "no,"
to visit a small grocery
"just a few" blocks away.
We rode our bicycles there
and bought ourselves 
frozen treats on sticks.
Riding back, 
my friend suggested
we trade bikes to ride
down a steep local street. 
I'd ridden down that hill 
dozens of times
on my own larger bicycle. 
His had smaller wheels 
and tall handlebars.
The handling was different,
and when it picked up speed
the front wheel began to wobble.
The last memory I have 
is trying to ease on the brakes.

My friend told me later
that the front wheel turned
and locked.
I somersaulted over the handlebars,
landed hard and rolled,
and didn't move. 
My friend laid down my bicycle,
picked up his,
and rode to tell my mom.

My mother had to do
the hardest thing she'd ever done:
pick me up out of that street
and put me into our car.
I was skinny. 
I didn't weigh that much,
and Mom is not weak. 
She does have a partial disk
in her back - a birth defect.
She's never known a day 
without pain.

That wasn't the hard part.

My mother's older brother, 
in his early teens,
was struck by a large truck
while riding his bicycle 
along a highway.
Well-meaning bystanders
tried to help him to his feet.
He had a broken neck.
He died on the scene. 
For Mother to lift me 
from that street
she also had to lift 
that memory.

My father worked fifteen miles away,
in another small town,
and our family doctor's office
was across the street from the plant.
Mom drove there 
because the local hospital,
at that time, 
did not have a good reputation
with emergency cases.
My father was called.
The doctor worked with me,
made sure I was stabilized,
and my parents drove me
to another hospital. 

I woke up two days later
with a fracture
down the back of my skull,
the worst headache I'd ever known,
and two memories 
which have remained with me.
The second was at the hospital,
of being taken from the car
and settled into a wheelchair.
The first memory is even briefer:
a few seconds' image 
in the doctor's waiting room.

Later, I was able to put details
on that image.
I was being carried out 
through the waiting room
by my father,
when I opened my eyes.
I looked over and saw 
the face of a stranger.
She was looking at me
with a concerned expression.
All that, I understood later
when there was time to think.

Right there, 
right then, 
there was just time to know
one important fact:
I was in Father's arms
and I was safe.

By: Michael Williams / June 18, 2003

Shaggy Night

Enveloping night, a cloud-shrouded moon,
two kids out exploring
an abandoned house, moans and creaks within,
wind outside is roaring.

My flashlight and his are puny and pale
the faint light twixt the two 
casts shaky shadows and scarce illumines
the rooms that we creep through.

Noises intrude which we've not heard before
sounds like someone walking,
and scudding scrapes we can't identify
jolt our whispered talking.
 
The sounds are coming from rooms overhead
stairs we'd not attempted.
We hesitate. We would check it out, but
our knees seem preempted.

We think just alike, like we'd best return
with the light of the day.
A sudden change, through the door up the stairs, 
those sounds now come our way.

Though an urge to run's our uppermost thought,
we're rooted to the floor.
The best we can do is turn our flashlights
to focus on the door.

Tense apprehension, disbelief, relief,
now we can smile again
as through the door comes a large shaggy dog
dragging a length of chain.

By: Michael Williams / June 20, 2003

Unbottled

An unmeasured draft of life
is ours to drink up.
We rarely know before we taste it
which swallow drains the cup.

Some choose to sip their portion,
while others quaff the lot.
Unless we chance to spill it
we drink all we have got.

Savor life or drink it down,
neat or on the rocks of pain.
Sparing shot or ample surfeit,
it won't be passed around again.

By: Michael Williams / June 22, 2003

The spelling in the title of this next one is intentional. It's a typographical error I saw somewhere else which gave me the idea for the poem.

Preformance Anxiety

Clay:
mixed and moistened,
pummeled and pounded,
kneaded and ready.
Shapeless, formless,
save only the lumpy,
uneven result
of its preparation.
Soft and malleable,
waiting its turn
on the potter's wheel. 
Does clay worry
what it will become:
whether useful,
appealing or artistic? 
Does clay care?
Or is clay just there?

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2003

The following is an adaptation of the prose descriptive piece which appears further below on this page.

Thunderstorm

A heavy band of gray lines the horizon. 
Growing, massing, it reaches across the sky. 
Sunlit trees in the middle distance 
wear bright halos against gathering darkness. 
A light breeze strengthens noticeably, 
coaxing branches into a swaying dance. 

Half heard, barely audible, a low rumble 
teases the edges of conscious perception, 
felt more in the soul than in the ear. 
Lightning streaks and plays,
dancing nimbly amongst the clouds, 
lancing groundward with increasing frequency. 

Nearer, nearer, looming overhead, 
consuming the light, leaden gray 
stretches in unrelieved solidness. 
A palpable change in the air 
adds weight to the deepening gloom, 
heightening a sense of anticipation.

Rumbling grows into booming, 
and individual crashes merge 
into a single pulsing crescendo. 
The branch-dance intensifies, 
frenzied excess competing for attention 
with fireworks in the sky.   

A wall of drops approaches, marching 
in line abreast across an open field 
as Nature's artillery flashes 
and shrieks a covering barrage. 
In perfect assault formation, 
the deluge sweeps forward. 

The skirmish line strikes first: 
large, splashy drops, but few in number. 
Reinforcements arrive as more drops fall, 
smaller and striking harder. 
The full force hits, pelting down,
a wall of battering, hammering drops.

The thrumming of their impacts 
increases in speed and volume 
like a manic drum solo, striving 
to drown out the crashing high above,
as lightning strobes a light show
against the backdrop clouds. 

At last, there is comparative silence 
as the rain passes, marching away. 
Thunder and lightning recede, 
carrying the campaign away and onward. 
The wind fades again to a light breeze, 
and the branches rest from their dance. 

Tentatively, then in chorus, 
birdsong fills the sonic void 
as the sky lightens and brightens. 
Pale blue gently nudges aside 
the steadily weakening gray. 
The storm is over for another day.

By: Michael Williams / June 27, 2003

Sea Wolves' Slaughter

"She's coming round!" The lookout cried,
the stoutest hearts did quail.
We strained to see and soon espied
the masts and swinging sail.

We knew before we saw the ship
the type that she would be.
The tallest mast, the flag a-tip,
each watching soul could see.

It was a pirate flag we knew
fluttering on that rope:
a blood-red flag, a threat in view,
no quarter and no hope.

We were traders, not men of war,
our numbers were too few:
outmanned, outgunned, and what was more,
they could outsail us too.

All turned to see, as if one man,
what Captain John would say.
"Brave men," he called, "I have a plan.
We may live past this day."

We yelled assent, no reneging, 
though none guessed his design.
We set the sails and the rigging,
our lives on each taut line.

Then Captain John took quiet stance
behind the wheel to steer;
and though we knew it made no sense
we somehow felt less fear.

The sea wolves' ship rode into view,
chilled us to the marrow.
The men could see, the captain too,
our lead quickly narrow.

A pirate warning shot splashed near;
The captain steered us west,
and we could see with renewed fear
their ship drawing abreast.

A shadow underneath us flew,
then we knew the gamble.
The pirate sailors saw it too:
how the wolves did scramble.

They tried to haul their ship about
We saw it jolt and stop.
A mast went down, we raised a shout,
the hateful flag atop.

"I grew up sailing this water.
I know this reef and gap.
I led those pirates to slaughter,
it's not on any map."

The captain turned our ship away.
He smiled, "I'll take no blame.
That blood-red flag's the rule today:
the sea wolves named the game."

By: Michael Williams / June 27, 2003

However, it appears one of the rogues survived, after all. Here's his version:

Part Two - Sea Wolves' Tale

Aye, I'm a pirate.
I make no bones about it.
I rob, I kill, I lie and cheat,
and I'd steal me own granny's silver
if'n I hadn't swiped it as a lad. 

So listen up, me hearties,
and I'll tell ye me sad tale.

I was sailing with a band
of me brothers and mates
aboard our sloop Raven.
We'd hunted our old ground 
till even the bones of the dead
shied away from us,
so we'd moved to a new area. 

We'd not been there a week,
and already we were riding high.
We'd taken three fat merchants
in as many days,
and we'd just spotted our fourth.
We ran up our flag
as we turned to chase them down.
They made a run for it 
and we had a merry laugh.
They'd no chance at all.

Trader's ships are wallowing tubs,
shallow of draft and broad abeam. 
They turn slow and sail slower:
no match for our swift Raven.
We closed on them fast
and fired a warning shot.
They turned west away,
but we had them.

We were drawing alongside, 
loaded with chain for their sails,
when our lookout spied a dark line 
under the waves ahead
and knew at once what the game was.
We were in the rigging 
before he finished shouting,
taking in sail to slow Raven
as the helmsman hauled on the wheel.

It wasn't enough.

We hit the reef hard
even as Raven was beginning 
to slow and come about.
The mainmast fell 
and our poor Raven
was gutted by the reef.

We clung to bits and pieces
but, so far as I'm knowing,
none of me mates survived. 
A lucky current caught me,
and I drifted to landfall, 
but lost me right leg to a shark
who needed it worse than I did.

The other ship sailed away.
I don't blame her captain for that, 
for we'd have yet taken his ship,
if we could have. 
He'd played us for fools, right enough,
and didn't care to be one himself.

Still, if'n I ever meet the man,
I'll spit him and I'll slit him
just for old times' sake.

By: Michael Williams / July 4, 2003

A Madman's Tail

A madman and a lioness are going on a date.
Her mom and pop both sternly warn "Don't keep her out too late."
He grins his most peculiar grin, and says to them "Oh, poo!
Don't fret yourselves about it, for we're going to the zoo!
We'll see the sights and, as we stroll, enjoy the summer air.
I'll buy her creams and ices and I'll treat her very fair. 
But good times notwithstanding, and no matter what the clime:
I'm mad, not daft. Expect us back before it's suppertime."

They're visiting the Human Zoo, a place so very queer,
with humans in their native settings sitting swilling beer.
The madman has escaped the zoo, so he will always say;
in truth, the keepers turned him out again just yesterday.
The lioness loves visiting; she’s keen to prowl and look.
"Observe," she purrs, "Librarian with prey, the unshelved book."
The keepers are all worried; wry lioness hides her smile.
Exhibits have been vanishing from here for quite a while.

By: Michael Williams / July 5, 2003

A Key Issue

Mountains and ridges
line a metal horizon.
Grooves race the course,
start to finish.
Pins and tumblers 
catch and interlock.
An effortless turn,
and closed is open.
All so simple, unless
it snaps off in the lock.

By: Michael Williams / July 8, 2003

The Madman's Other Tail

The madman takes a trip one night, upon a summer's day.
He says, "I'll stop and see the sights I pass along the way.
'Twill be an epic journey, and it’s not too far away."

He calls his friend the lioness, she is eager to go.
She purrs, "I like to travel and to see the human show.
They're all so full of silliness, there's always more to know."

They journey to a hospital, a luxury hotel.
The madman has a private room; it's padded very well.
He feels quite cozy tucked inside, a monk within his cell.

The lioness is rather less enamored with the stay.
She's loyal to the madman, and she's not inclined to stray,
but still, she feels the concierge prefers she’d go away.

"I don't cause any fuss," she growls, "I'm sleeping on the floor.
I never even grumble that they always lock the door. 
I just can't help the feeling I'm not welcome any more."

The madman is elated to have finished out his stay.
The lioness has told him that they're checking out today.
She scared the bellhop half to death; his key's left on the tray.

By: Michael Williams / July 12, 2003

The following is an adaptation of the prose descriptive piece which appears further below on this page.

Little Spitfire

Tiny teeth in a tiny mouth, 
tiny claws on tiny paws, 
a tornado with fur perches 
atop a tire, up in the wheel well, 
almost out of sight. 

A tawny coat, 
flecked with black, brown, and orange 
in a pattern that's almost tabby, 
has a fuzziness that hints 
of the beautiful longhair 
she will soon become.

Born wild, 
still wild, 
she sees this tire as a fortress 
to defend to the last. 

Mama, a striking silver tabby, 
would be proud of such defiance. 
She's never been caught either.

A hand comes up before her. 
Hiss and strike! 
Another hand, unseen, 
grasps the nape of her neck. 
No fair! 
Little Spitfire is captured at last.

Run ahead seven years.

Sleek satisfaction, 
curled contentment, 
half-lidded eyes in a small face 
watch a hand descend 
to stroke long, mostly tawny fur. 
Her purr burrs noisily.

Never very large, 
she reflects her nickname 
of Little Plush Toy. 
Gone is the hissing defiance 
and the wildness
...well, almost.

Her head snaps up. 
Her ears spring to attention. 
Her eyes dart, taking in the room. 
A flying leap from her perch, 
and she is a blurred streak down the hall. 
Up the bathroom doorframe she scoots, 
climbing it just as she would a tree. 

Her cry has a note of triumph. 
Just for the moment, 
Little Spitfire has returned.

By: Michael Williams / July 12, 2003

A Matter of Focus

"Are you familiar with
Phnom Penh and Angkor Wat?"   

The "man in the street"
looks at the polltaker
as if he has two heads
and is growing a third. 

Dabbing at his eyes 
with an obviously-damp 
clump of tissues, 
he struggles for a moment
to understand the question
which has just been asked. 

"I don't know," he says at last,
shrugging his shoulders,
"the only Penn I know is Sean;
and I guess an Anchor's 
what's for a boat, right?"

Dabbing at his eyes again,
he starts away, then stops,
turning back to the polltaker.
"I'm sorry," he offers, 
as a tear streaks uncaught, 
"I just came from the hospital
and I can't focus on much else."

He wipes away more tears,
then smiles wearily, 
offering the polltaker
a bright-pink-ribboned cigar.
"My wife gave birth today."

Tears burst forth.
He stops trying to catch them.
"I'm a father."
He smiles again,
and wanders away,
lost in the wonder. 

By: Michael Williams / July 17, 2003

Oil Well Done

Paul N. "Red" Adair is a firefighter.
He is one of the most unusual 
firefighting professionals
you’ll ever encounter.
He fights oil well fires. 

It’s a dangerous job.
It’s also one of the messiest. 
Not only do well fires 
have to be extinguished,
the wells have to be capped
to stop the gushing flow of oil. 
It’s not the kind of thing you can do 
from a safe – or clean – distance. 

Think about taking a shower 
in the blackest, grimiest oil
you can ever imagine,
and then wearing it 
for all of your work shift
with periodic "refreshing."
You might get remotely close 
to the regular experience
of Red Adair and his team.

It was Red Adair who was called
after the 1991 Gulf War
to control and cap the wells
left burning by the retreating Iraqis.
His team completed 
a "three to five year" job,
extinguishing 117 oil well fires,
in an astounding nine months.

Before he sold his company in 1993,
Red and his team controlled and capped
over 1000 oil wells internationally,
averaging over 42 fires and blowouts,
inland and offshore, per year.

By: Michael Williams / July 21, 2003

Of Fishes Big and Small

Alone with my thoughts again in my mind,
journeying endlessly onward to find
truth that surrounds like a melon has rind.

Ever familiar’s the view from inside:
never quite glimpsed is the vantage outside
for ever my ego has something to hide;

Though I make efforts myself to get out,
my ego resists with grumble and pout,
shielding itself with a wall of self-doubt.

I’m a small fish in a very big lake,
hunted and feeling that one slight mistake,
will make me a lunch for big fish to take.

Other small fish disappear one by one,
mouthful by mouthful, even ton by ton,
in countless eons no small fish has won.

I have to escape that smothering rind,
completing my journey, whence I will find
growth in the viewpoint outside of my mind.

By: Michael Williams / July 28, 2003

Wetland Morning

Crisp air is warming as the sun is rising bright,
and day is shifting gears to morning out of night
as dawn accelerates to the fast-growing light.

I drive a road east to west, racing with the sun,
a meeting to attend, business life on the run:
one hundred ten miles to go 'fore my day is done.

I top a hill, and enter into a timeless place,
restful and unhurried, however rushed my pace, 
where sun and I receive a respite from our race.

Coolly stretching in the sun, balm to weary sight,
a shallow wetland ripples, glinting brightly white
as waterfowl transients rise again to flight.

Parted from the road by perhaps a yard, no more,
clear water sparkles across a broad valley floor.
A heron stands sentinel near the quiet shore.

This taste of wildness touches my mechanized life.
Tensions are cut by tranquility like a knife,
and peace descends upon my routine daily strife.

There's no scenic place to stop, nowhere I can slow,
no roadside spot to view this uncut wildlife show,
but my mind's eye carries it with me as I go.

By: Michael Williams / July 31, 2003

Our Lives, Our Choices

When I hear 
"Why would a just God permit...?"
"Why would a fair God allow...?"
"Why would a loving God let...?"
it's never the right time, 
but I want to question the questioner.
I want to ask why they would expect
that being just, fair, or loving
would mean tipping the scales
unnaturally in their favor.

Mankind has free will. 
That is our blessing.
That is our burden.
Free will is a two-sided, balanced equation.
It is not taken from us,
nor are we protected from it.

All of the humans on the earth
make untold, uncountable 
numbers of choices every day.
We accept the benefits;
we bear the consequences,
even when they come from
combinations of events 
we could never have imagined.
To be allowed to choose,
and to be allowed to benefit from choosing,
we must also be allowed to suffer from it.
That is just.
That is fair.
That is loving.

God is not some holy horror
seeking the unwary to inflict misery.
He is not a galactic gamemaster
rolling dice to direct our fates.
He is not a cosmic child
smashing cars together 
and shrieking with glee.

God gives us our freedom,
as any parent must any child,
and hopes His teachings are enough.
If each thought, each action,
was vetted and prescribed
by an over-zealous God,
we would be mere puppets 
dancing on a stage:
animated, but lifeless.

Free will is a gift. 
We just don’t always recognize it
when it comes dressed as misfortune.

By: Michael Williams / August 7, 2003

Not a Dry Eye in the House

Why do we have the ability to cry,
yet make such a virtue of resisting?
Emotions wrack us; we won’t shed a tear
and are proud of keeping a dry eye.

Feelings we have, we cannot deny,
but the mask of ice can’t be slipping.
Keep stoic stance as burdens we bear
and the natural reactions we defy.


Cry! Don’t try, let yourself go!
Let every faucet be dripping.
Don’t act so noble, don’t live in fear
that some trace of moisture might show.

By: Michael Williams / August 7, 2003

As a Grain of Mustard Seed

People pray for many reasons,
some noble, some self-serving,
some desperate, some selfless.
All too often, the question comes:
why aren't more prayers answered?

Prayers are answered,
but sometimes that answer is "No."

Another question: "Matthew 21:22 says
'And all things, 
whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, 
believing, ye shall receive.'
What about that?"
Ah, well, that is a different question.
That is a question of faith.

Faith is a matter of simple belief.
That is what's so hard about it.
Faith as a grain of mustard seed
is faith we are told moves mountains.
Mustard seeds are tiny;
the amount of faith is too. 
Have you seen any mountains float by lately?

Consider: when was the last time
you sat in an ordinary chair
expecting to get dumped in the floor?
Even if it did happen - chairs do break -
did you swear off sitting in chairs?
Now: when was the last time you prayed
and had not already thought,
even before you finished the words,
you might not receive what you sought?

No, it's not different at all.
That's the kind of faith required.
When you pray, you must believe in it,
just as you believe when you sit down. 
Approach prayer with the confidence
with which you approach a chair.

Then, if the answer is no,
faith can accept that, too,
without being diminished.

By: Michael Williams / August 8, 2003

Encounter

A coffee can on the sidewalk bears a small sign:
"Viet Nam Veteran - Thank you for helping."
The man has no arms or legs save stumps.
The athlete pulls two bills from his wallet.

Stopping to bend down, he looks the man in the face.
Not for him the averted gaze of impersonal giving.
He freezes, his practiced phrase dying on his lips, 
The neatly folded bills fall the last few inches
into the coffee can as his fingers lose their grip.

One eye returns his gaze, steady and unblinking;
the other, a glass prosthetic, stares off sightlessly.
Half a mouth in half a good face crooks into a smile. 
The other half is motionless in a reconstructed mask.
And yet, the man was singing when he knelt down,
an old-time hymn the athlete knows very well: 
not out loud, to attract compassion, but quietly.

"I do all right," the man says as the athlete
expresses sympathy, "there's a computer where I stay
and I get to use it a little most nights."
He flashes half a grin. "People on discussion boards
don't know who I am, or how long it takes me to type."

He shrugs his shoulders, and the athlete thinks
how odd the gesture is when one has only stumps.
"Some of the others take me places, like here,
and I get to church services every Sunday. 
I like to give for those less fortunate than me."

Without a word, for words have deserted him,
the athlete pulls all the money from his wallet
places it into the coffee can and turns away.
He continues on his run until he rounds a corner,
then stops again, to wipe his flooding eyes.

By: Michael Williams / August 12, 2003

A Midsummer Night's Worm

That which we call a worm,
by any other term -
a virus springs to mind -
would still be as unkind.

To patch, or not to patch,
That's hardly the question;
nor nobler in the mind,
facing worms of this kind,
to count on a bastion
of safe e-mail to catch

this inbound contagion
which comes not to us thus,
making fools of us all.
Windows computers fall
Despite our cautious fuss,
through this dread pathogen.

To surf, perchance to browse,
aye, therein lies the rub;
for in that 'net browsing
what dire threats appearing
shall penetrate our hubs?
So we all best not drowse.

Nay, this worm, as we know,
doth enter where unpatched
to Windows versions three - 
NT, 2K, XP - 
from portals yet unwatched.
Its progress is not slow.

This worm's not made the best,
though spreading wild and free,
'tis not most efficient - 
there's yet more proficient.
What fools these mortals be!
See not this is a test?

This be very madness,
yet 'tis method in it.
For, if we shun the patch
despite what we might catch,
when Windows next gets bit
'twill make a vaster mess.

This pale worm might be poor;
but, lest we be serene,
the next one will have ways
to use our salad days
of judgment very green
to pierce to Windows' core.

I come to bury this
Blaster, not to praise it.
The evil men do lives 
on the 'net and it gives
us cause not to be hit.
Come, this patch let's not miss.

(Exit)

By: Michael Williams / August 16, 2003

This is particular poem form is called a chained tanka. A tanka starts with the haiku form, of three lines with syllable counts of 5/7/5, and adds two more lines of 7/7. A chained tanka is two or more tanka together in sequence.

My Wife

Morning's light on skin
lines and tracks of marching years
false light lies with truth
beauty does not pass with age
it was never owned by youth
soft touch on my face
sweet press of your lips to mine
you sing in my ear
my mind sees the girl I wed
woman who completes my life

By: Michael Williams / August 17, 2003

No More New

She gathers pieces of her broken trust
to patch her tattered pride;
searching for a gleam, in the dirt and dust,
her eyes once held inside.

"We can be again like we were before."
Such easy words he spoke.
He's eager to build up their trust once more.
She'd rather it stayed broke.

Their relationship, once precious and true,
is badly smashed and rent.
Hammer the dents to straighten and renew:
still, the framework is bent.

Two blocks of wood can be stronger than one
when shaped and glued to fit;
But he damaged their bond, should just stay gone:
asunder they are split.

By: Michael Williams / August 20, 2003

Madman III: Return of the Lioness

"Dear lioness," the madman cries, "I thought that you were through!
I thought the men at hospital had made short work of you."
Lioness rumbles at the thought, the memory still raw,
the narrowness of her escape, the horrors that she saw.
The kindly folk at hospital, so of them madman thought,
had only one thing on their minds: that lioness be caught.

"I had to let them think me dead, and let you think it too.
For if I had not, I could see they'd not let go of you.
I could not stay. I went away so they would set you free.
That did not mean, my lifelong friend, you'd seen the last of me.
Now you are out and they are gone. We can begin anew.
So now, what say we celebrate by going to the Zoo?"

By: Michael Williams / August 21, 2003

In The Darkest Night

Flash! Boom!

Stark light strobes 
through rain-streaked windows.

Flash! Boom!

No lights: the power is out.
The house is silent,
save for the beating rain.

Two kerosene lanterns 
push against the night.
One has a mantle, 
a tube of mesh netting,
to spread and even its glow.
The other, with a plain wick,
gives a flickering light. 

The shadows are strange and move, 
alive on the walls.

Flash! CRACK!

"That was close,"
Father says,
"over in the woods."

An antique clock bongs the hour:
nine quavering strokes.

The television sits silently.
Earlier, Johnny Quest,
pitted against evil ghosts,
triumphed over fakes. 
Now they’re back, real, 
cavorting and beckoning 
from the hall
in the quivering darkness.
Look away so they won’t come out.

No point saying anything.
Mom and Dad wouldn't see them:
parents don't.

Flash! Boom!

Mother, seated by the steadier light,
picks up our Bible and reads,
choosing Psalm 23. 

"The Lord is my shepherd..."

The drumming of the rain is lessening.
The lurkers in the hall are listening.

"Yea, though I walk 
through the valley 
of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no evil: 
for thou art with me..."

The refrigerator hums to life
as the hall light snaps on.
Spectral shapes vanish
with a despairing soundless cry.

My parents never saw them,
never knew the fear they provoked...
did they?

By: Michael Williams / August 28, 2003

This is a tanka. See the earlier description of a chained tanka.

Experience

Brash young co-worker
I am over twice your age
you are very sharp
but I've lived events you've read
just sometimes I will know more

By: Michael Williams / September 1, 2003

Adventures Unlimited

I've been Humphrey Bogart, 
hot on the trail of the Maltese Falcon,
with my trench coat's collar turned up
and my fedora pulled low, slouching
against a lamppost in its circled light.
A cigarette hangs from my lips, 
smoke curling, as I wait for my contact.

A paladin on the business of my liege, 
I have stopped at a roadside inn,
sitting at a rough-hewn oak table
as I call for food and drink. 
The barmaid brings me a flagon of ale,
sizing me up - am I an easy mark?
She catches my eye and winks.
A terse shake of my head is my answer;
I know the likely price of her favors.
She shrugs and turns to the next table.
My sword hand stays in easy reach
of my blade, just in case.

I have walked the dusty streets 
of the old west, a tin star on my chest,
matching wills, wits, and gunplay
with the desperados, gunslingers, and 
the cattle-rustling varmints I loathe.
In the saloons, the house drink 
is variously known as redeye, liquid fire,
panther sweat, snake juice, and rotgut,
but it's all just the same cheap whiskey,
and all watered down, making me wonder: 
how did people get drunk on this stuff?
There's always a poker game in the corner
and someone banging out tunes on a piano.

I pace the decks of a mighty starship.
I am the captain, and my word is law
in the trackless reaches of space; 
but I also bear ultimate responsibility 
for more than fifteen hundred crew. 
Over the years I have met them all.
I have learned the name to each face,
and I know the cares that drive them.
When one dies, it's a loss in my own family.
There are no faceless sacrificial lambs here.

I have stood breathing the salt air 
and feeling the deck roll under my feet
as I gaze out across an unending sheet of blue,
the only other colors the white tops of waves
and the molten hues of a rising sun.
The lookout calls down, the crew knows,
and up the mainmast the Jolly Roger goes.
Raven's Revenge is about to claim another prize.

I have fought in many wars, on both sides,
in great battles and in small skirmishes.
I've died at the Alamo fighting Santa Anna, 
attacked Cemetery Ridge, defended Little Round Top,  
ridden the fields of Waterloo and Agincourt,
and stood proudly shoulder-to-shoulder
with the patriots on Lexington green.

I have led uncounted different lives, 
across many worlds and many times,
and all without ever leaving my chair.
This chair, which I can't leave on my own,
is no longer my prison or my life.
I can be anyone, anywhere, any time;
I can travel and meet thousands of people
through the doors opened by my computer.

I am free. I wonder what ale tastes like?

By: Michael Williams / September 3, 2003

This is another of the chained tanka poem form.

September 11, Two Years On

Islamic fliers'
suicidal creation -
martyrs to freedom
a failure to understand
why democracy still stands
terrorist mantra
America is weak and soft -
unpleasant surprise
America was badly bent
but America did not break

By: Michael Williams / September 8, 2003

Ring of Truth

The ring on my left hand
is a plain golden band
with no fancy design,
not on hers or on mine.

As a solemn statement
of our entwined intent,
we bought them together
to wear in all weather.

Life's not all without care,
weather's not all been fair.
Still, when the storms are done:
they're a pair, we are one.

By: Michael Williams / September 9, 2003

Mark on My Heart

My wedding ring has made a mark,
an encircling groove in my skin.
Whenever, briefly, I remove it,
that indent guides it home again.

My ring is never taken off
when I shower or am asleep.
In all events, in all I do,
that ring in place I proudly keep.

While others may remove their rings,
I never have, nor will so choose.
What I might gain is not a penny
to the fortune I would surely lose.

By: Michael Williams / September 9, 2003

Soul Cry

Every so often 
a heart breaks.
You know when it goes
by the sound in your soul.

It’s a quiet snap 
like the pop of a knuckle,
a cracking you feel 
more than hear.

A despairing groan
suffused with a moan -
sad, desperate whimper.

A soft broken whisper
mixed in equal parts 
with a searing silent cry
and a lingering sigh.

Every so often 
a heart breaks. 

Oh babe...

I heard yours tonight.

By: Michael Williams / September 10, 2003

A nonet is a poem form with nine lines. The first line has 9 syllables, the second line has 8 syllables...and so on, down to the ninth line, which has only one syllable.

Lifetime Lifeline

Lawfully wedded, husband and wife,
and what God hath joined together
let no one put asunder.
I spoke once before God
each day I renew
for always and
forever
I do
vow.

By: Michael Williams / September 12, 2003

Box Turtle's Lament

A turtle and a nightingale did have a friendly chat;
Nothing of too great import: just this and a bit of that.
Then nightingale did cock her head. "My little boxy chum,
what is it has you feeling down? You're looking very glum."
Box turtle heaved a mighty sigh for one of such small size.
He shook, as Nightingale looked on, with quiet sobbing cries.

"I am so small," box turtle wailed, "I'm such a tiny guy.
I plod along; I cannot run. I cannot leap or fly.
My shell's dead weight, no help at all. It keeps me from my goal.
I must be careful so I never bottom out or roll.
If I would try to cross a road, I'd almost surely die.
Oh, what I'd give to be like you: an owner of the sky."

The nightingale chirped, flying down, "you're looking at it wrong.
Though it is true that I can fly, it's not all joy and song.
I cannot walk the way you can; I only hop about.
My legs are thin; to hop too far would quickly tire me out.
I have no choice; I'm forced to fly to get from here to there,
though any time, a raptor's swoop could sweep me from the air."

The nightingale gave turtle's shell a sharp rap with her beak.
"This fine home you want to give up is just what I might seek.
The nests in which I live are not so fine or waterproof.
I wish I had such shelter when there's rain upon my roof.
Box turtle thought about her words. At last, he said "That's so.
I guess it's best for each of us to work with what we know."

By: Michael Williams / September 21, 2003

Reflected Glory

Images upon a canvas:
ablaze with colors,
awash with shapes -
a mirror brightly reflecting
the lights in his mind...

...Vincent van Gogh.

By: Michael Williams / September 23, 2003

A Dark Night's Tale

The pirate ship comes sailing down upon a darkling sea;
riding on a cresting wave, unmanned wheel a-spinning free.
Wind-swelled canvas ripples, billowing in the dead-calm air.
There are no sailors on that deck, the rigging, too, is bare. 
Against the cloud-enshrouded sky, a Jolly Roger flies;
I can feel the burning stare of its empty sightless eyes.

The prow swings 'round to aim right at the center of our craft;
my wife is forward in the bow, while I am standing aft.
There's no place for us to hide, but we still dive for cover.
When we dare to look again, the ghost ship has passed over.
Our engine, at last, comes alive; we take our chance to flee.
We've had enough of this night's game of Chicken of the sea.

By: Michael Williams / September 25, 2003

Seek Me, Find Me

A blank canvas is a soul, waiting to be bared.
An empty page is a mind, waiting to be shared.
A lump of clay is a heart, waiting to be built.
Molten glass is a spirit, waiting to be spilt.
A wooden log is living, waiting to be carved.
A stone block is a story, waiting to be graved.
Tempered metal is a form, waiting to be cast.

Art sends memories to the future from the past.

Mediums of many kinds, across varied lands,
can reveal rich stories when coaxed by willing hands.
A person who seeks, in spite of skill, age, or youth,
can reach inside the formless and bring forth a truth.

By: Michael Williams / October 1, 2003

New Kit on the Block

A tiny huddled kitten sits beneath a maple tree;
his blue eyes never stray a second as he's watching me.
He doesn't seem too fearful; he's just nervous and unsure.
He doesn't know me, after all, or that my motive's pure. 

A family with cat and kittens moved just yesterday.
This little guy must have hidden, coming back out today.
Although his darting eyes are watching every motion,
An offered piece of ham quickly overcomes his caution.

That was seven years ago; that tiny furry fellow
has grown a lot larger and he's gotten very mellow.
He snuggles against the keyboard; he likes to watch me write.
He'll stay there till I open up his canned food late tonight.

By: Michael Williams / October 2, 2003

Rocking-Horse Dream

A rocking-horse ride to Dreamland, ending a busy day
with Teddy Bear along to guide, they go riding away.
Stop at the candy cane signpost, read the lemon-drop signs,
and choose a destination on Slumber Time Travel Lines.

One path leads to the Dragon's Lair, his fire a distant light.
One path follows a woodland trail, a pleasant ride tonight.
One path runs to Pirate Cove, where adventure waits at sea.
One path is in the meadow, where animal friends play free.

So many places dreams can go, it's hard to make a choice,
so Teddy Bear suggests a path in soothing growly voice. 
"Let's go down to the Dreamland Sea to look along the shore
in search of shells and starfish, teeming tidal pools, and more."

Teddy Bear will point with care, describing every shell;
for he has been there long before, and knows them very well.
A walk and talk they will enjoy alone beside the sea,
till morning and the dawning brings them riding home to me.

By: Michael Williams / October 4, 2003

Jocasta the Catslayer

Jocasta hated cats, 
without exception or apology.
She hated them all. 
It wasn’t personal;
she had never owned a cat
and didn’t even really know any. 

Jocasta’s father had detested cats;
he reviled them every day of his life. 
"If I had my way," he’d storm,
"every cat in the world
would be taken out and drowned."

Jocasta never asked, never knew
why her father hated cats; but,
she loved her father deeply.
So, Jocasta hated cats. 

"If I could," she’d avow,
"I would go back in time
and kill the first cats ever. 
There would never have been cats.
That’s what I’d do."
Her friends would laugh, uneasily;
they called her Jocasta the Catslayer.

One night, Jocasta got her wish.
She met a man with a time machine,
who agreed to send her back in time
to accomplish her wish 
of preventing the first cats.

The sun overhead warmed her shoulders;
she felt the tall grass brush 
against her ankles over her shoes
as she walked through the field.
Jocasta knew she had truly gone back
by the crudeness of the dwellings;
she stopped to scan the horizon,
and was sure she stood before
the beginnings of recorded history.

What a wonder, she thought;
archaeologists will line up
to use that time machine. 
She knew she could rewrite history books
if she just had the time to explore. 

Jocasta sensed destiny.
This was the time and place 
to find and kill the first cats. 
She was about to rid the world
of the creatures her father loathed.

A sure feeling led her;
she strode unerringly ahead
and approached a lone dwelling.
No one else was in sight
as she drew a deep breath
and cautiously entered.

Inside, nested in a corner, 
she found a mother cat
with a litter of five kittens.
These, her mind told her,
were the first house cats,
the first ever to live with humans.

The mother cat hissed and ran
after a brief display of defiance
as she approached, still half-wild
and untrusting of a stranger. 
The kittens were rustling about,
their feeding interrupted,
looking around and at Jocasta.
They were unafraid. 

Jocasta knew what she had to do.
She picked up a kitten,
cradling it in one hand, 
gripping its throat with the other.
She didn’t want to be too cruel,
so she felt for the best grip
to quickly snap the small neck.

The kitten reacted to her fingers'
feeling and searching
by nuzzling against them. 
Puzzled, she looked down.
Didn’t it have a sense of danger?
Clear blue eyes full of trust
and something she couldn't define 
steadily returned her stare.
It was so small, so soft, so...
Jocasta thought of her father; 
she steeled her mind,
gritted her teeth,
and found the grip she needed.
The tiny kitten licked her hand,
and purred.

Jocasta jolted awake,
her dream world shattered.
She gasped for breath,
sitting upright in her bed 
as her eyes shot open.
A flash caught her eyes,
but it was only the first rays 
of dawn peeking through her blinds. 

Jocasta looked at her hands.
One hand had a wet spot
that wasn’t perspiration,
or her tears now raining down;
it smelled something like milk.
She shivered, chilled 
in the warmth of the room, 
remembering and listening
in the stillness.

That, my friend, is why 
Jocasta the Catslayer
runs the no-kill shelter
and has five cats in her home.

By: Michael Williams / October 7, 2003

A choka is a poem form with alternating lines of 5 and 7 syllables to any length, ending with a final two lines of 7/7.

Hues to the Season

green-hued foliage
fading away its last days
gold, red, and yellow
are soon adorning branches
scarlet and orange
Halloween's fiery costume
crimson and cerise
trees in brilliant party dress
russet and ochre
autumn's quiet elegance
sienna and umber
fall's multihued days count down
to a waning few
winter lurks ahead and waits
to blanket bare limbs with white

By: Michael Williams / October 12, 2003

Pursuing Meaning

I asked the morning wind for the meaning of life;
the wind just blew me off.
I asked a brook to say why there is toil and strife,
but the brook just babbled.

I told a small squirrel on a branch in a tree
how I wanted to know what my life meant to me.
The squirrel looked at me with interest,
but I think he just thought I was a nut.

I talked to a bright-feathered goldfinch, who I tasked
with my wants and my needs.
He listened, but when I was finished, only asked
if I had thistle seeds.

I searched, I explained, and I listened all around;
I even ran the question right into the ground.
Yet when my efforts were all said and done,
I knew exactly as much as before.

I looked to the sun one last time for a reason;
the sun dazzled my eyes.
That forced me to stop, and to rest for a season,
then I got a surprise.

As I regained my vision, my life came to me;
which, quietly viewing, I could finally see:
it's not what I chase that matters the most,
it’s what's there when, at last, I stop chasing. 

By: Michael Williams / October 17, 2003

Cassandra's Child

Adrian is red-headed, freckled, and sees things – 
misfortune and grieving, terror and tragedy, 
evil deeds and foul play, accidents and car wrecks. 
Adrian possesses the gift of second sight. 

The child wants to tell people what is coming; 
but Adrian was born with Down's Syndrome and is 
afflicted with halting, hard-to-understand speech 
and a severely limited vocabulary. 

Adrian tries very hard to explain, to warn, 
but each person only smiles uncomfortably, 
nodding politely till the child finally gives up,
stops talking, and walks away frustrated. 

In late 2001, Adrian was thirteen. 
The child was agitated for over a week, 
wept inconsolably all day September 10th, 
racked with agony and grief no one understood. 

Adrian is upset again, crying often. 
People think Adrian is frightened by the season 
because the only word anyone comprehends 
of what the child tries to say is "Halloween."

By: Michael Williams / October 23, 2003

Night Star

I lie 'neath the stars and I dream
of a past that was, then wasn't,
of a present wishes can't make,
of a future that never can be.

I lie 'neath the stars to bring back
the very best memory in me.

By: Michael Williams / October 24, 2003

The triolet is a fun poem form. It consists of eight lines. The first line is repeated twice (as the fourth and seventh lines) and the second line is repeated once (as the eighth line), so when you've written the first two lines, you're over halfway done! The rhyme scheme is a/b/a/a/a/b/a/b.

Perceptions

A slip of the lip becomes a quip
if everyone thinks it's clever.
If it really does make them flip
a slip of the lip becomes a quip
and the little fact you did slip
becomes your secret forever.
A slip of the lip becomes a quip
if everyone thinks it's clever. 

By: Michael Williams / October 29, 2003

This is another of the choka poem form.

A Violet Legacy

When I was a child
I played alone many times
at my grandparents’
while my parents visited
I loved their front yard
a carpet of violets 
in a ring of trees
glorious when in full bloom
when I was married
I brought home a clump to plant
beneath our own trees
my grandparents are now gone
their home another’s
but the violets remain
spreading now under our trees

By: Michael Williams / October 29, 2003

Brother, There's a Splinter in Your Eye

We smirk and wag a deft finger
as we sip at a cup of glee,
smugly certain there's no danger
that we could be blinder than thee.

We all are blinded in some way;
the only difference is how. 
Some were blinder just yesterday,
while others are blinder right now.

Chant what we know like a mantra
to keep it from slipping away.
How do we learn something extra
with our blind spots blocking the way?

This view of life is all a-twist
as surest truths so often are.
So many things so near we've missed
while focused sharp on those afar.

By: Michael Williams / November 3, 2003

To the Platter Born

My town is rural; I can tell you 
it isn’t at all unusual to see 
a cat adored, or a dog beloved
as much as any family member.

Some animals are born as food,
some animals are born to work,
and some are born as companions.
Each has its role on the farm.

Draft animals work for their meals,
raising food for human needs,
for theirs and other livestock feeds.
Other breeds are raised to be eaten.

Farm folk know the difference.
While they may pamper those others,
they’ll eat them all the same
and feed them to their pets.

By: Michael Williams / November 15, 2003

The cinquain is another syllable-based form, apparently of American origin from what I've read. The syllable pattern is 2/4/6/8/2. This is a butterfly cinquain, which expands the pattern to 2/4/6/8/2/8/6/4/2. The repetition of the opening phrase at the closing is not a necessary part of the form.

Poets Are Lonely Actors

For us,
no one applauds,
no standing ovations,
no one ever even awaits
backstage.
Ours is a solitary craft;
there are no thronging crowds
for poets’ works...
for us.

By: Michael Williams / November 15, 2003

Beyond Price

It was a new plant, 
sister operation to the one
where I’d worked previously.
Our company offered desks
with leather inlays in the tops.
This was the first one done here. 

My father did the inlays 
at the older plant.
My mother ran a small area
which did fabric panels,
Management decided her area
would do the leather inlays.

The foreman over Mother’s area
was attempting to inlay the leather. 
When leather is glued and laid,
there are air bubbles under it
which must be worked out. 
The foreman was trying, 
vainly chasing the bubbles around.
Mother and I both tried to explain,
but it wasn’t helping.

The time for working with leather
can be measured in minutes
before the glue starts setting up.

I asked for the tool and took over.
I’d never worked an inlay myself,
but I had watched Father many times. 

My mind communicated with my arm
to produce a passable imitation
of Father’s more practiced strokes. 
The bubbles were herded together
and pushed out from under the leather. 
The top was successfully finished. 

That small moment, that feeling, 
the expression on Mother’s face -
and, later, on Father’s – 
no money could ever buy.

By: Michael Williams / November 24, 2003

This next one was prompted by a comment I read on a website - I'm not sure how serious the writer was - that "all fasting is insane."

On Fasting

Reach out into lands around the world,
spanning across centuries present to past.
Gather people from a variety of situations,
and pose the question: why do you fast?

"I fast when I am in prayer,
to cast aside the distractions of the flesh,
to purify my mind and soul,
and to elevate my thoughts to a higher plane."

"I fast some, and eat little at any time
in order to become as those I serve.
How can I understand someone with nothing
if I have food any time I want it?"

"I fast to cleanse my body
and flush the poisons from my system.
I eat a healthy diet and treat myself well, 
but occasionally, I feel the need to renew."

"I am a political prisoner
and I fast to draw attention to my cause.
Eventually, they will have to force feed me 
or let me die. Either way, they lose."

"I fast for economic reasons. I have no job, 
no government aid, and little money. 
I go without food so my children eat today.
I don't know what I will do tomorrow."

"I do not understand fasting; I am starving.
There is a drought and crops have failed.
No one has enough, except maybe our rulers.
My children are dead; my wife and I are next."

"Our land is torn by war and strife. 
The economy is destroyed and nothing is left.
Even the rich bring a wheelbarrow of money
in hopes of taking home a loaf of bread."

"I'm fasting because I want to lose weight.
I need to lose some pounds, very quickly.
I have a class reunion in just two weeks,
and I'm not going unless I am slimmer." 

By: Michael Williams / November 26, 2003

This next one was written for a "worst poem challenge" - does it show?

Cold-Hearted Lover

You sit, imperious,
a popsicle tyrant – 
all icy and commanding
with a straight flat stick
for your unbending spine,
your head swiveling atop
like a loose cannon,
firing your cold glances.
Ah, but you are melting fast
in the bright Summer’s day
of my warm love.

By: Michael Williams / November 27, 2003

This is another of the butterfly cinquain poem form.

The Unexpected Move

Chess knight
leaps and prances
from corner to corner,
never straight or diagonal,
oblique
in its move; no head-on charges,
sweep round and swoop down on
an exposed flank
to win. 

By: Michael Williams / December 21, 2003

This is another of the choka poem form.

Clarity

There have been moments
in my life when all was clear
as crystal to me:
I knew my purpose, my place
in the universe,
my part in the grand design,
my meaning and worth.
I stand here now, looking back,
and have forgotten it all.

By: Michael Williams / January 14, 2004

Fuzzy Mamma

Dark gray, long-furred, 
sitting stately, sedately, 
with tail encircling,
to accept a scratch
behind your velvet ears.

The word "piercing" 
could have been coined
just for those green eyes.
Your steady, appraising gaze
strip-mines my thoughts
and lays bare my soul. 

Is your understanding
as deep as your look?

Few would believe
that you were wild-born;
fewer still would accept
that you ran right up 
a wall-leaning board
straight to the ceiling,
during a furious rampage
that drove a veterinarian 
out of his own exam room.

By: Michael Williams / January 15, 2004

Ginger

He sits erect, 
an orange tabby
with white chest,
feline intensity
with switching tail,
orange eyes focused
on a lurking nothing 
just before his nose.
A sniff, one more, 
a confident snap,
then chew, and swallow,
quite satisfied.

Ginger eats 
another
bite of air.

By: Michael Williams / January 20, 2004

This is another of the choka poem form.

Fever!

hundreds of ideas
and dozens of feelings dance
competing wildly
for attention as they whirl
my fevered mind reels
leaving me panting for breath
as it spins away
cannot stop the rush of thought
control or slow it
burning wishes flooding through
bear me resistless 
if this heat be not madness
surely 'tis very like it

By: Michael Williams / January 20, 2004

This next was a bit of silliness written for a "Monthly Madness" poetry challenge. Some of the words in it are used as though they are names of living creatures or characters in the piece. Can you spot them all?

A Knock and Then Another

As I was sitting, reading,
there came a knock upon my door.
I rousted quickly from my chair, 
and quickly opened my door. 

I peeled the knock away
from the door where it clung,
just below the peephole. 
It left knock marks.

I scolded the knock with a frown;
the frown was very disapproving.
I set the knock upon the ground,
and quickly bade it go away.

I turned and quickly went inside,
but I saw a sight that stopped me.
There was another standing by,
patiently, saying nothing.

I know another is just like that, 
quiet and almost painfully shy.
Nothings are the most they ever say,
though nearly all of those are sweet.

Still, it didn't take very long 
to determine what he wanted,
so I directed the bashful fellow
to another party down the street.

By: Michael Williams / January 20, 2004

Abbreviated Cat

Buster Orange had a vet visit;
not his favorite place is it.
Now he feels a lack
in the back.

By: Michael Williams / February 11, 2004

Seasons of Mind

A weary winter gloominess gets settled in my brain,
and when I try to push it out it flows right back again.
It colors my perceptions with a wash of pallid hue,
as though the sky within my mind forgets how to be blue.

A greeting wave, a pleasant smile, and more are brushed aside
as others' cheery friendliness is spurned by moody pride.
Steadily I turn inward like storm front's building spiral,
darkening, deepening, till raindrop thoughts splash over all.

Sudden amidst the windy sweep of stormy, cloudy me
glows a single point of light: dream of summers yet to be.
Although my thoughts swing wild and fierce about this nascent gleam,
the center's calm and undisturbed, the point becomes a beam.

The beam erupts, its showered light shafts through the overcast;
the dismal drear is weakened till its power breaks at last.
I know the end of winter's chill is still somewhat away,
but just to see spring coming is enough for me today.

By: Michael Williams / February 21, 2004

Mystic Cuts

Flying Dragons regulate their breath, metering their flame.
Pixies, fairies, and sprites measure doses of magic dust.
Wizards are trimming down their spells, elves are doing the same,
magic potions are cut in half, and mystic storms just gust.

Spell casting scrolls are shorter, incantations are more terse.
Magic blades are short swords now, their enchantments half as strong.
When an amulet is evil, it is but half a curse,
and the mightiest charm's effects last only half as long.

The marauding hordes are downsized, their numbers cut by half;
spreading half-terror through the land, half the consternation.
Champions respond half as fast: it's not a major gaff, 
it’s just part of a drive for fantasy conservation.

By: Michael Williams / March 3, 2004

One Minute, One Life

Two good friends met, 
each speaking greetings.
One hurried quickly away,
too rushed to stop
or to listen; unaware
of a choice just made.

A stranger spoke a greeting,
listened to the reply
with patience and sympathy;
then continued, unaware
of a decision altered
and a life changed for good.

By: Michael Williams / March 6, 2004

This was written to go with a story by another writer - a tale about werewolves, of course. The main character in that story suffered a tragic loss. This piece became the epilogue of the story.

Werewolves' Requiem

Paws and claws silently prowl,
glide beneath a blood-full moon;
fur and fangs, look up to howl
stark anguish, a mourning tune.

Lupine mind cannot deny
raging turmoil, inner pain;
howl, Moon Singer, keen and cry
to the blooded moon again.

By: Michael Williams / March 9, 2004

This was written for a challenge to write about Doubting Thomas.

No Doubt

I saw Him. 
I touched the wounds.
I believe.
The first time, I was not there.
The others saw and touched Him
and, having received their proof,
they told me I should believe.
I disagreed with them.
I wanted to see and touch for myself.
Now I have. 

I had a reason.
I am now, like them,
a witness to His resurrection. 
For the rest of my life, 
I will tell others 
my Lord rose from the dead.
They will challenge me,
saying I didn't really see it.
I will be able to say
I saw Him.
I touched the wounds.
I believe.

By: Michael Williams / March 14, 2004

This next one is true.

Domingo and Mischief

Domingo and Mischief were a likely pair,
though quite different in appearance. 
Mischief was a small, roundish female cat,
with long black fur that never matted,
and a misting of white on her chest. 
Domingo was a lanky orange and white male, 
also longhaired, and rarely matted.

Ming and Chuff were quite a pair,
With equally outrageous personalities.
Little Chuff was into everything, always.
If there was a way in, she’d find it.
If there was no way in, we might be surprised.
Ming the Merciless lived by one motto:
"No thing shall remain on any other thing." 

Ming and Chuff enjoyed one thing together.
They liked to go outside at night. 
My wife and I’d take them out, each on a leash. 
Mingo would get excited and vocal
when the harnesses and leashes came out.
Chuffer would wait quietly for hers. 
Together, out they would go, dragging us.

Ming and Chuff had different ideas
of what to do on their trips outdoors. 
Ming always wanted to circle the house,
his "inspection trips," we called them.
Chuff stayed in the front yard, exploring.
A few minutes each had to be spent
sitting first on the neighbor’s boat trailer
and then on the hood of my old truck. 
They usually ended up back at the front door
at about the same time, ready to return.

Everything has an ending; this one came too soon.
Mischief took ill, and after a short time, died.
Domingo, who would live another few years,
later wanted to go outside one more time. 
We think he went out searching for Mischief.
He looked around the front yard a little,
but did not make his trip around the house. 
Never again was Ming excited to see the leash. 
Never again did Ming want to go outside.

By: Michael Williams / March 9, 2004

Just a final note. We did take Ming out one more time beyond what is recorded in this piece. We thought maybe Ming just didn't want to go out alone, and took another cat along. Wrong...Ming ignored the other cat, and just cried to get back inside. That was the last time we tried. That message was clear enough even for thickheaded humans to understand.

The word "neon" was the focus of the challenge for which this was written.

Night Lines

Neon flames sear the night
to burn away the darkness, 
if any could be found,
and consume the hours till dawn.

Tubed bolts lance downward
as lightning strikes twice, 
thrice, endlessly, forking over
this timeworn nightclub strip. 

Here's a weather-beaten tiger
leaned against a gaudy bar,
eternal martini in paw,
switching a lambent tail.

There's a flickering alligator,
tail bouncing brightly,
grinning and snapping
at an anonymous tanned bottom.

Yonder's a glowing pirate ship
rocking on motionless waves.
A starlet beauty walks the plank
every night to morning light.

Each nightclub is an island,
its glowing sign a beacon
bringing the human flotsam
in with the evening tide. 

Trudging this sidewalk,
bathed in a thousand lights,
I am unlit; how fervently I wish
the reverse was true.

By: Michael Williams / March 29, 2004

I also wrote this to go with the "neon" word challenge, but decided it sounded too much like a Plymouth commercial. And no, Mom, I don't drive like this. Honest!

Neon

Flash-of-silver
vibrant in passage, 
daring a straightaway,
dancing a curve

Spirit belies size;
agility meets quickness.
Get in it with me 
or get out of my way.

By: Michael Williams / March 29, 2004

The next two pieces were written for a challenge to use the following words (or forms of each): Idyll, Gambol, Miasma, Expiate, Sanctum, Plaintive.

Foggy Daybreak

Thick, miasmic, morning fog
clings to trees and buildings,
as if coiled about every object.

Lulled somewhat by the quiet,
I sit inside, brooding, as if
a monk praying in expiation.

A soft sound invades my senses,
so indistinct I'm not certain
from which direction it comes.

I check three windows before 
spotting two half-grown kittens 
in the area between three trees.

One gambols happily in the mist,
stirring up swirls; the other sits,
mewing plaintively, off to one side.

The little fellow seems unnerved,
confused by his altered world;
the other copes ecstatically.

A sudden decision, care cast aside,
the second kitten bursts across,
and littermates roll in a tangle.

Kittens tussle, bringing a smile
at this scene turned idyllic. 
I watch a while, no longer alone.

By: Michael Williams / March 30, 2004

Deadland

An abandoned shack leans perilously,
creaking in the wind, open to weather.
This tiny outpost on the edge of wildness,
is rapidly succumbing to time and nature.
There is no refuge to be found here; 
no protection, no sheltered sanctum.

Creeping miasma curls among twisted trees,
squirms and swirls like a living thing.
Gnarled branches, robed in hanging moss
like great ragged sleeves, stretch skyward 
in importunate prayers of expiation;
no forgiveness ever comes in return. 

This is no idyllic pastoral scene;
no carefree animals gambol and frolic.
No living thing seems to move at all.
Weary sullenness pervades the land;
all is rank, dank, dead, or dying, 
and the only cries heard are plaintive.

Smart men rarely venture in too far, 
or tarry long, especially at night.
Common sense overrules brash courage.
Not-so-smart men sometimes never return;
and those who do have little to say
for a long, long time afterward.

By: Michael Williams / March 31, 2004

Drag Race

Hear and feel the engine roar,
the horses are wild tonight.
Punch the pedal, give it more,
horses revving for a fight.

Echoed thunder off the line,
squealing tires in cadence.
Horses' hearts tuned ultra fine,
the mighty beasts will dance.

By: Michael Williams / April 1, 2004

To Beverly Jean

Ponytailed locks,
white bobby-socks, 
take my mind back a ways.

Babysitter I had,
when just a lad,
teen queen of my younger days.

By: Michael Williams / April 1, 2004

Another one of those word challenges. This one was "telephone." Oh, just for the record, I am not writing about myself in this piece or in Night Lines above. I've never been in a bar or nightclub. I have, however, listened as others talked - bragging or complaining, I'm never sure - at different times.

Just Missed

A long day at work, 
a short night on the town,
and here I am, walking. 

Earlier, a tall, cool lady
shared some bar-space
and a couple of drinks
with me. "Call me" she said
as she walked away. 

I nodded. It had been such
a long day at work that
I didn't remember until 
it was too late that I had
never gotten her telephone number...

...and here I am, walking. 

By: Michael Williams / April 8, 2004

Comfort

Comfort is
a way of life
for some.
However,
comfort is 
most appreciated
by those
who don't have it.

By: Michael Williams / April 14, 2004

Faceting

You, standing straight,
meet my eyes with level gaze;
saying you have no reason
to bow your head, no shame.
You have done no wrong.

With no cause for doubt,
I take your word as truth.

Truth is a diamond
with facets that gleam,
sparkle, and fade to flat
as it rotates in the light.

You did no wrong. 
Turn the diamond: 
did you do right?

By: Michael Williams / April 14, 2004

A limerick, just for fun!

Mangled Fairy Tale

Old Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
but his winter was no good at all.
Then his widow (poor thing!),
had a really sweet spring,
and in summer she threw a great ball.

By: Michael Williams / April 14, 2004

Killing Time

Time, nearly frozen, advances at a glacial crawl.
Shadows stall, the sun sticks, a stuttering minute hand fails
as the balding gentleman, portly and avuncular,
smiling as he speaks in a curious monotone drawl,
regales his captive audience with intricate details
of riding on the Bridgenorth Castle Hill Funicular.

He presses relentlessly on with relish and with verve.
His smile shows his teeth as he worries each particular,
shaking and tearing each tattered subject and well-chewed verb;
he clearly has this much-told tale by its jugular.

The only lesson we’ve learned from his story is never
again to wish that our vacation could last forever.

By: Michael Williams / May 1, 2004

This one IS in haiku form, but the title's an important part of the piece, so I put it here.

Eye Cant

The mightiest can,
if canted enough, may be
toppled and broken.

By: Michael Williams / May 4, 2004

To Mom

A mother is patience
at the long end of a trying day
when that into-everything child
gets into something new. 

A mother is forbearance
when that bright child 
with the inquisitive mind
tracks mud and - what IS that?!? - 
across a clean kitchen floor.

A mother is sensitive radar,
ever vigilant and hearing
the wrongness in a thump
before the child’s first cry.

A mother is a guardian angel,
soothing and caring;
a healer of hurts small to large
and a righter of wrongs.

A mother is a tigress
fierce in defense of her young.
Woe to the mean fat bull
that threatens them with harm.

A mother is a welcoming hen
when her grown-up children,
beaten and battered by the world
seek shelter under her wing once more.

Above all, a mother is love,
in purest, simplest form;
and that, my friend, 
needs no explanation.

By: Michael Williams / May 7, 2004

To Dad

A father is the lawgiver,
laying down rules and regulations
with stern lectures about
what to do and how to do it. 

A father is a twitch at the corners
of a disapproving frown,
as memories return unbidden
of him doing the same things.

A father is unexpected mercy
in place of deserved punishment,
giving instead the warning
"just don't ever do it again."

A father is a steady hand,
warm on his child's shoulder,
saying as much in that touch
as mom's enfolding hugs. 

A father is a pair of arms
and a strong back to lift 
and carry an injured child when 
they have fallen and hurt, so much.

A father is the sturdy tree 
that money really grew on;
mom may have given it out,
but dad always knew and approved.

A father is firm resolution
when a grown-up child moves out,
knowing the door must close behind them 
(but refusing to lock it). 

A father is love:
the warm and reassuring smile,
the pride in those twinkling eyes,
the tear he thought no one saw.

By: Michael Williams / May 8, 2004

Night Mare

Velveteen black of nightfall,
cloaking darkness that surrounds,
will slowly make your skin crawl 
with muffled and hollow sounds. 

The Night Mare comes at a trot,
clattering on cobblestones.
Its snorted breath is dry, hot, 
to parch and wither your bones. 

Caress the sleek ebon hide
that fades and melds with the night;
but decline if offered a ride
or never more see the light.

By: Michael Williams / May 11, 2004

Descent

Blinded by mortality, 
we rappel down a cliff-face called Life,
uncertain of the conditions at our landing
or when we will arrive.

By: Michael Williams / May 29, 2004

Poetry Prescription

I sat nervously, waiting;
The doctor sat lost in thought.
Finally, he looked up, frowning,
and regarded me for a long moment.

"Yours is a serious case, my friend,
possibly the worst I've ever seen.
You've let yourself go far too long
and the results are very plain to see.

Your imagination is limp from disuse,
your dreams are empty and pale. 
All of the stars that once filled 
your eyes have winked out one by one. 

Your fancy can barely crawl along, 
let alone take wing in flight;
TV has left it bloated and unable
to cast off that poisonous waste.

Your thoughts have only surfaces,
there's no depth found underneath;
hollow, shriveled and atrophied,
they no longer support your mind.

I think there's hope, do not despair,
but you must make some changes today."
He stopped then, wrote on his pad,
and handed me this prescription:

Take time for rhyme, 
rehearse some verse.
Exercise imagination: 
proper preparation
will stretch the mind
and you will find
it is freer of strife.
Read as though life
and health depends on it;
your mind will benefit.

By: Michael Williams / June 4, 2004

High Poet Tree

I climbed way up in a high poet tree
like the catcher on a circus trapeze;
caught rhymes on my laptop while swinging free
with a narrow branch hooked under my knees.

"Now why would you write with heels over head?"
I can imagine each mutter and curse.
The answer, I fear, is just what you dread:
I thought the world would look better inverse.

By: Michael Williams / June 15, 2004

Whisperwind

Guttural under eaves,
shrill down drainpipes
and through loose windows,
hushed and insistent in the trees,
and a booming bass against the siding;
winds before a storm 
speak with many voices, 
utter secret messages
in the ear of a wide-eyed child.

By: Michael Williams / June 28, 2004

Ma'am, About Your Son

She stood stone-still, 
one hand clutching the doorknob, 
stricken, speechless, bereft.

The Army officer kept speaking,
words entered her ears;
but she could not hold on 
to them, could not comprehend.

The sun had plunged into the sea. 
The moon had exploded.
Time itself was dead, 
impaled upon a single word:
"...missing..."

By: Michael Williams / July 1, 2004

Best Friend

Amaze me, amuse me,
Show me life itself.
Live and love me freely,
come down from your shelf.

Guide me, show me,
I'll take you everywhere;
guardian companion,
loyal teddy bear.

By: Michael Williams / July 1, 2004

This is another of the butterfly cinquain poem form.

Scents Memory

Sudden
honeysuckle,
light on a summer's breeze,
carries me off to teenaged years;
home to
rural summers spent mowing 'round
trees robed in green vines and
honeysuckle's
pale blooms.

By: Michael Williams / July 6, 2004

This is another of the cinquain poem form.

By the way...

Dylan 
Thomas had it
wrong, y'all: you can go home 
again, even if only in 
your mind.

By: Michael Williams / July 6, 2004

Committing Authorship

When I was a child, 
I played with writer’s blocks
and I learned my ABC’s. 
Now, I am an adult; 
my writer’s blocks play with me
and I learn patience. 

I write to be read;
don’t be daft, course I do.
Otherwise, I’d simply think
my great thoughts for my own
amusement and let them pass,
to make room for more. 

I’ll admit there’s not 
a line waiting every time
I deign to let a page drop.
My loyal audience probably
numbers in the teens
(high teens, I hope). 

I write what I want,
but I like the occasional
challenge of a word or topic
that sparks thoughts 
and creates verses 
I would never have had.

I’m no Wordsworth, 
no Keats, nor Hemingway;
and though I dream of my name
on something deathless,
I’m realistic enough 
not to lose sleep over it.

So I’ll keep writing. 
If you’re out there,
please do keep reading.
I may never be famous,
but with any luck at all
I won’t be infamous, either.

By: Michael Williams / July 9, 2004

Morning Silence

Nothing had been spoken
since the heated words
of the night before.

Thickening black clouds
hung between them
at the breakfast table;
cold cereal, milk,
and microwaved instant coffee
because neither was willing
to cook for the other,
but neither would cook
in front of the other.

She looked across.
There it was,
sitting next to his cup,
just out of reach.
Frustration painted a grimace
across her face,
but unless she wanted
to get up and walk
around to fetch it....

"Would you pass the sugar, please?"

He looked down,
picked up the sugar bowl,
and reached across to her.
Their eyes met.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
She couldn't stop the grin
that spread her mouth wide.

They erupted in laughter as one.

By: Michael Williams / July 13, 2004

Warrior Prince

Resplendent in bright armor,
astride a white - no -
a magnificent black charger,
he would measure his opponent 
down the length of his lance.

He would be her champion, 
she his lady, and their love
would span the ages. 
Grand passion would reward 
his labors on her behalf.

She passed without a glance.
Sagging despondently, 
brave dreams turned dust,
he sighed: what elegant lady
could love a peasant called Lump?

By: Michael Williams / July 13, 2004

Snow Life

We are born snowflakes,
individual and unique,
aloft over the ocean.

We float down,
sometimes drifting,
other times driven
and windswept;
alone, or with others
clustered around.

Yet always,
we are headed down
to a melting reunion,
joining again the blue depths
which wait and beckon
with curling waves.

By: Michael Williams / July 20, 2004

This was written for a friend of mine who is facing a loss she can do nothing to prevent. The title does not refer to her; the friend in the title is her mother.

Love Song for My Friend

We small-talk through my visits,
discuss the past, not the present,
certainly never the future.

I can't answer the questions
that I see haunting your eyes;
you won't let them past your lips.

Time is rapidly slipping past. 
Soon there will be no more us.
I cannot wait any longer. 

Of course I will remember you.
Why would I forget? 
How could I ever want to?

I will celebrate your life, not
mourn your passing; I will mourn
for me that I no longer have you.

I do know death will mean an end 
to your pain; but all I can see 
are farewells at a rainy day funeral.

And there will be rain...
even under a cloudless sky.
There will be water falling.

By: Michael Williams / July 23, 2004

This was written at the suggestion of a friend on a poetry board. It can be considered a prelude to Snow Life.

Snowrise

Adrift in a blue limbo,
at one with forever, 
we are everything 
and nothing.

We could remain 
an eternity, 
and would,
but even the ocean
yields to the draw
of the sun.

Droplets of vapor rising;
we are tears 
wept in supplication
to lambent heavens.
 
From the vastness
of the ocean, 
we become a sweeping
reach of clouds;
yet we are not
the same as before. 

High above earth,
cold and wind work us
and wonder happens.
We are born snowflakes...

By: Michael Williams / July 26, 2004

Grammarcy

The parallelogrammarian likes his words just so:
all lined up neat, in order sweet, each in its own tight row. 
The telegrammarian worries how his words will sound.
Let each one bugle brightly, he cares not how they are found. 

The pentagrammarian favors mystic-flavored motes,
supernatural intones, tinged with oracular notes.
The electrocardiogrammarian’s words cause chills
with pulse-pounding excitement, danger, and heart-stopping thrills.

The centigrammarian weighs words, judging where they go;
seeking a perfect balance with each word a line to toe.
The hologrammarian’s pen paints scenes not really there.
Nimbly those creations dance, whirling in the sparkling air.

I could name more grammarians, line them up on a shelf;
but I think I’d better stop before I describe myself.

By: Michael Williams / July 27, 2004

Amber Moments

Once in a while,
a moment breaks free
from the chains
which confine it 
in the prison 
of marching Time.

In such instants,
the world is suspended 
on a moment of eternity
and nature catches
its breath to see
what will transpire. 

In such instants,
all realities are equal
and every outcome
is possible... 
until nature exhales 
and the world spins onward.

But the moment 
lives its own lifetime;
forever enshrined 
in the amber of memory
shining changeless 
and untainted in the soul.

By: Michael Williams / July 27, 2004

The character of the peasant Lump returns in this tale.

A Needed Hero

Baron Brax sat on his horse, arrogant beyond belief;
and each potential challenger was shaking like a leaf.
"Will no one in this woeful lot muster any gumption?
So pathetic! You can find not a single champion!"

Not one answer. No one dared. Fighting meant certain death;
for in Brax' brutal matches, only the victor drew breath.
He was a law unto himself, even the king stood by.
Then came a soft-spoken answer "Arm me and I will try."

A collective gasp; each head turned to see the hapless chump.
Another gasp as each one learned it was the peasant Lump.
"I will flay the little wretch alive." Brax haughtily sneered.
The scornful crowd, as one might guess, laughed at poor Lump and jeered.

But Lump, for his part, hid quite well the queasy fear he felt.
Armor was brought, and a sword; in front of his king he knelt.
The king blessed him hastily, and as quickly turned away;
for he, as all the others, believed Lump would die that day.

They squared off, the signal was given, the baron charged his foe,
and silence held the watchers awaiting the killing blow. 
Brax feinted a stroke, and swept 'round to press home his attack;
no one was more surprised when he landed upon his back.

Lump's foot pressed down upon Brax' chest, his sword was at Brax' throat.
"Swear to me now," spoke Lump, "or I will spit you like a stoat.
Your killing days are over, declare it unto me now. 
Henceforth you fight for honor alone; I await your vow.

The baron’s vow was terse. He left as quickly as he might.
Behind, a hearty roar arose approving of the sight.
"Lump! Lump!" His playmates’ calls woke Lump from lofty dreams again.
Off he romped with the other boys to play at King’s Campaign.

By: Michael Williams / July 29, 2004

Hello

There was an aura 
around the sun all day; 
I swear the moon
just winked. 
Every mundane sound
has bell-like tones;
hearing them 
makes me laugh out loud.
Hey you...hello.

By: Michael Williams / August 5, 2004

Seedlings

Like dandelion seeds
blown from a bloom,
caught and carried
by a rising breeze, 
we often don't see
results of the wishes
(get better, soon!)
we gently, hopefully send. 

We must be content
knowing we sent them,
willing them away
to take root and grow
in a receptive heart.

By: Michael Williams / August 31, 2004

Until the End of Time

If has turned to When. 
Implacable calendar,
never much a friend,
turning from sneaking thief
to bold raider, 
comes to steal
the one loved best. 

Salt of tears, 
sands of time,
a quicksand mixture
dragging, pulling
relentlessly
to an unwanted conclusion.

Fall – 
rage in the heavens, 
storms in the soul,
rain to fall
as though never to end;
but all ends...
even Fall.

By: Michael Williams / September 1, 2004

This next one is dedicated to police everywhere, but especially the underrated, under-appreciated, and often undervalued "campus cops." I never knew this man, but I knew others just like him, and didn't appreciate them properly at the time. I don't think students really ever do, unless an event such as this occurs.

-- Michael, Butler University Class of 1976.

Friday September 24, 2004

Hinkle Fieldhouse, 10:29AM:
one gunshot,
one man flees,
one "campus cop," 
Officer James L. Davis,
husband and father of three,
lies dead.

It is first the homicide ever
on the Butler University Campus.

Later, interviewed students
remember friendliness,
willingness to help, 
and many kindnesses.
They mention his calmness 
in stressful situations.

Indianapolis police
flood into the area within minutes
and begin an intense search.

Several blocks away, 12:45PM:
plainclothes detectives
approach a man, walking south,
fitting descriptions of the shooter. 
The suspect fires first
and is fatally wounded.

1:00PM:
a friend and former supervisor
(working with troubled youth)
of officer Davis
returns home to find
a phone message from 9:46AM
confirming weekend plans:

"I can't wait to see you
at the wedding tomorrow."

By: Michael Williams / September 25, 2004

A Life for the Tale

He was a thrown grenade 
in a world of veiled words
and hidden meanings.

Heads swiveled on their axes
at his braying laugh;
the dead, it was said,
could hear his excessive glee.

Many a disapproving glare
down an upturned nose
was directed at him.
Long discussions detailed
his copious shortcomings.

He thought not of them at all.
Knowing the value of life, 
he got on with living it;
laughing when pleased,
crying when moved,
serious when needed. 

He gave his coat and his cash
to a homeless man in the park
and walked home. He caught an illness 
that laid him on his deathbed.
Now, the upturned noses smirked, 
he's learned his lesson, far too late;
he will regret his ways, just watch!

His last breath was expelled in a laugh.

By: Michael Williams / October 4, 2004

Hideaway

I keep a forest inside of my brain, 
quiet and dark and away from all pain. 

Sometimes my pillow won't fit my head 
and there isn't room for me in my bed 
with all the worries and cares of the day, 
so I leave it to them and slip away. 

I wander amid the twilight trees, 
deeply inhaling a cleansing breeze; 
dispelling the gloom and finding my peace 
when my tensions finally release. 

Don't look for me until it is light; 
the forest is calling to me tonight.

By: Michael Williams / October 26, 2004

Popular Appeal

"A lot of flash
and not much splash."
Thus a critic
opined of her.

Sneaky gaffer
photographed her,
now the public
wants more of her.

By: Michael Williams / October 26, 2004

Summer Breeze

Marigold suns, 
dandelion moons, 
bob on a wind of chance. 

Little fingers 
on little hands, 
little eyes that dance 

with quiet quick thoughts 
no one can hear, 
forming memories 
no one can see: 

just marigold suns, 
dandelion moons, 
a warm summer day, 
and me.

By: Michael Williams / October 26, 2004

Madman IV: The Bride of the Madman

The madman's getting married, the event's just days away.
Lioness looks quite ashen; she's no notion what to say. 
It's clear he wants to have her give her blessing on his choice;
but each time she attempts to speak, she cannot find her voice. 

She's really rather puzzled that she has not seen the bride,
it's simply not the kind of thing her friend would try to hide;
and yet, there is no doubt, the madman's joy is undisguised.
It's all that lets her face a situation so despised. 

Her heart is softly breaking underneath her feline smile
as she finally admits she has loved him for a while. 
Then through this realization of her feelings at their peak
comes strengthening that steels her for the words that she must speak.

"Dear friend your heart is captured, though by whom I do not know;
so give me one last kiss goodbye, then I will quickly go."
He grins his most peculiar grin, and says to her "Oh poo!
My dear and silly Lioness, the bride was always you."

By: Michael Williams / November 11, 2004

Days Like This

A day grayed out by overcast, descending into night;
whispering raindrops glitter falling past an old streetlight.
Pull into my parking place, underneath a spreading pine;
glance askance at other homes as I hurry toward mine. 

A zephyr thought slows my steps, brings my eyes up from the ground
for the first time in a long time, a longer look around. 
A few tick-tocks, a few more drops, wetter does not matter;
ever since my childhood I have loved the raindrops’ patter.

By: Michael Williams / November 20, 2004

Name a Friend

If you would ask a friend of me,
then I would name you Timothy;
one for comfortable comradeship
who's never let a cross word slip.

A quiet one with learned ways,
Tim brightens my most weary days.
I can say with no misgivings
he's included in my Thanksgivings. 

By: Michael Williams / November 24, 2004

Word War III

Secure behind crenellated opinions,
loosing volleys of barbed tongues,
defending your position with vigor,

berserker light firing your eyes,
pulse racing to the clash of words,
does it matter what point you hold? 

If I assail your entrenched position,
sending forth serried ranks of logic,
tell me the objective for which I strive.

When your defenses are battered down, 
holes knocked in those fortified arguments,
is anything gained by breaching that wall?

Will I actually break through to you,
reach you there with battle lines of reason,
or will you be gone, fighting elsewhere?

By: Michael Williams / November 25, 2004

A slightly humorous look at my wife's excitement over a new appliance. It struck me as interesting how the things that excite us change as the years pass...

A Moment of Realization

You begin to understand 
creeping adulthood 
is overtaking you 
when you have to take 
a whole vacation day
just so you can prepare
to give your wife a really good

new washing machine. 

Everything is finally 
all set up and ready.
She is very excited,
filled with anticipation.
She can't wait to jump in the

utility room, to do 
that first load of laundry.

Afterward, she's so thrilled
with what you've given her
she offers to let you 

take her out to dinner. 

During this interlude
she can barely concentrate
on the meal before her
as she talks eagerly
of hurrying home to do

a second load.

And you? 
You're satisfied 
and contented
because she's happy

until you notice her
looking at other appliances.

By: Michael Williams / December 15, 2004

Elephant Cuisine

A very old and silly joke asks 
"How do you eat an elephant?"

I pondered that joke today
as I stood in my driveway
knee-deep in the most snow
ever recorded in our area. 

Window-deep drifts against my truck,
I looked out to the street 
where the snowplow had made
one lane on the opposite side: 
two truck-lengths to the curb,
then ten feet more beside.

At least the snow in the driveway
was easier to move and lighter.
The snow in the street was deeper
and packed somewhat tighter
because of the snow the plow
had thrown while making its pass.

I'd shovel a while and rest
as the experts say on the news.
Sometime later, I looked around,
with a touch of surprise, I'll admit;
a drivable swath was shoveled clear. 
I'd shifted every bit. 

How do you eat an elephant? 
One bite at a time, and chew it well. 

By: Michael Williams / December 25, 2004

Jeri Faerie's Birthday Dance

Jeri Faerie twinkled and spun all on a birthing day.
Though other Faeries danced mortal births, none had quite her way.
The wee babe would be special she knew, Jeri had the sight;
and so made sure 'twas she who danced upon this baby's night.

Jeri's delight was a dervish whirl, twirl upon tiptoe,
jetes beneath the watching moon, her wingtips fair aglow;
tracing arcane figures aloft in fiery faerie dust
to signal greeting to a babe with hair as red as rust.

"A red-haired child is gifted, but this little lass has more;
with life she'll have communion as a sea-wave with the shore.
Tragedy will touch her life, but great happiness she'll see;
so, though her smile will hide at times, her joy will never flee.

So bring her cakes and candles, light her pathway through the years, 
for many times the geese will fly before her last appears;
and though the wolves may howl all round, and might give her a fright,
she need not fear their teeth, for she is blessed upon this night."

By: Michael Williams / December 30, 2004

One More Time

My name is called.
My number rings.
My pager beeps.
"You've got mail."
There goes my cell phone.

I sigh inwardly.
I answer. 

Once again, 
someone else's obsession
replaces my own.

By: Michael Williams / December 31, 2004

Fleeting Glimpses

Look along a tree-shrouded path.
What did you see?
Look again - it's gone.
Look again - you're gone.
We share our lives with phantasms
of things that were - and weren't.
We walk that shadowed path
with all its twists and turns
amid vivid dreams -
and we are even asleep
for some of them.

By: Michael Williams / January 2, 2005

Another Snowy Day

Lively snowflakes dart and spin, driven on capricious wind
as waves seem to ebb and flow with the winds that shift and blow.
A tiny twister whips and whirls, transcribing whorls and curls;
cryptic hieroglyphs and runes, music sheets for mystic tunes.

But this scene is quite mundane, too familiar to your brain,
easily explained away: just more snow, another day.
Hush! Do not be beguiled or too adult, see as a child.
Awaken from your trance and you may see the Snow Sprites' Dance.

By: Michael Williams / January 5, 2005

Small Voices

Every life is a light to the world. 
Our lights are small, 
our candles are short.
Though we may burn brightly,
we need another's glow
to stave off the darkness
for as long as it may
be kept at bay. 

It's not an easy request.
All we can offer
is the love we'll give,
the memories we'll leave
when our brief candles
flare their last. 

At the beginning of life
we are marked for death.
Our need is not easy,
and if you turn away
it is understandable. 
There is no shame.

Take us, and our lives 
are yours while they last.
We will love you no less, 
just not for as long. 
Have you room for us?
Have you love for us?

By: Michael Williams / January 12, 2005

Cats Do NOT Multitask

When cats eat from a dish
we give it our full attention,
eating until we are satisfied.

Then we walk away 
and leave the rest 
so someone else may eat.

Why do you tease me so, 
setting your plate down
only to pick it up again? 

By: Michael Williams / January 28, 2005

Night in the Trees

Brush, tap, tap...

What was that?
Oh, just a branch, dipping down.
Felt like a tap on the shoulder.

Were those branches that low before?
Don't think so, but 
hard to be sure in this twilight. 
Maybe it's the rain,
weighing them down.
Been a lot of rain lately.

Tap, tap, brush...

Another one!
It's got to be the rain.
At least it's letting up;
this path up from the garage
is bad enough bone dry.
Must be more tired than usual;
'cause it seems steeper
and longer tonight, 
like there're more turns.

Tap, brush, tap, tap...

Man, that's annoying!
No matter, almost there.
Just around this turn,
and there's the grand old...
Wait, where's the house?
What's that low rumbling?
It's like...laughter?
Is it coming from the trees?

Hrrhrrhrrrrhrrrrrrr, smack!

Ouch! No! It's the ground!
The whole freakin' hill's moving! 
Aw, no, no, no, man...
should've never moved to Calif...!

By: Michael Williams / January 29, 2005

The following descriptions are fictional. For one thing, I don't even have a brother or a sister!

Verbiage

Father's fulminating in the bathroom,
frustration ineluctably tingeing his voice
as he recapitulates the shortcomings
of the corporate entity that is both
his livelihood and bane of his existence.
Management's vicissitudes, unresponsiveness,
and tendency to rule by fiat combine
to drive him to paroxysms of asperity.

Mother presides over the household,
sagacious dispenser of wisdom and justice 
in equal measure, breaker of deadlocks. 
Her world can be sharply monochromatic,
crisply defined by stark delineation
of life's rights and wrongs. Her ability
to eliminate the nuances of gray
from any situation astounds us all.

Brother's temperament is mercurial,
fluctuating unpredictably and swiftly
between sanguine and brooding, 
sunny and somber, jocular and sardonic. 
Amazingly, he rarely suffers permanent
consequences from his moodiness, for 
he can be quite the loquacious charmer,
his liquid smile washing away resentment.

Sister's a contemporary fashion plate,
togged out, de rigueur, in the latest gear.
Her color du jour is muted heliotrope.
Flouncing in from her room, she twirls
for our appreciation and admiration.
Pausing to peer inquiringly over my shoulder, 
she observes "You've been reading 
the dictionary again, haven't you, twerp?"

By: Michael Williams / February 19, 2005

Strawless

I am hollow clothes,
ragged emptiness;
lacking even splintered sticks
to lend shaky structure
and the semblance of a spine:
yesterday's hand-me-downs.

Heedless winds blow through me,
or I through them;
I cannot tell which,
nor why it ever mattered.
We emerge without contact,
going separate ways unchanged. 

By: Michael Williams / February 22, 2005

Essence

Heart and blood, the soul of Peace
is forged in the fires of War;
though it tastes of sweet surcease,
that heat remains in the core.

By: Michael Williams / February 28, 2005

Kelly Lass

Viridian eyes 
catch my gaze, 
holding it fast. 
Tresses of flowing garnet 
frame an ageless face 
of alabaster smoothness. 
Ruby lips part slightly, 
breathing my name, 
twist slightly 
in a one-sided smile, 
and she is gone;
leaving no trace 
as though she never was,
but her smile 
is forever imprinted 
on my soul. 

By: Michael Williams / March 8, 2005

This next was written upon hearing news that Pope John Paul II had died. I am not Catholic, but I still respected the man. There had been, just the day before, an interesting note in a news article reporting that the pontiff, on his deathbed, had spoken a greeting to someone who had just come in the room, saying he had expected them to come, and now they had. There were a couple of people who had recently entered the room, and they assumed the reference was to them. To me, however, the nature of the greeting sounded like the pontiff was speaking to someone unseen by the others.

Everlasting

My Lord is immoveable rock.
Whoever builds a foundation on Him
shall never be moved, 
though the winds may blow
and the heavens may rage. 

Pope John Paul II, at the last
was reported to be suffering,
but nevertheless serene. 
This does not come as a surprise
to those who understand what he knew.

O death, where is thy sting? 
O grave, where is thy victory?
The message of I Corinthians 15:55
is the final sermon of Pope John Paul II.
Whether we are Catholic or not,
it is given for all of us.

By: Michael Williams / February 19, 2005

Guarded

Bow, sweep, sway, circle,
advance, withdraw, and turn,
change partners and repeat;
with careful, measured step
dressed in dream and fantasy
and fabulous feathered masks.

It is a masquerade,
exquisitely played.

Say each pretence or charade,
every deception or misdirection
added a frill to the mask
hiding the act's performer;
the beautiful decorations
would trail as a train behind.

A lifetime's flight,
hiding in plain sight.

Lives built into masks,
masks concealing lives
from the wearer as much
as from those who behold;
and ever the dance goes on
with careful, measured step.

By: Michael Williams / April 4, 2005

As you might note, this isn't my usual style. I was looking to write something with a macabre, creepy tone.

Conclusions

His eyes lifted to meet hers,
watched as life faded from them.
He stood, drawing ragged breaths,
still clutching the dripping knife.

She had fought him
for control of the blade,
clawed like a tigress,
but he wrenched it away.

Hollow victory....

For she had accomplished
the thing she sought,
driving the point under
her ribcage and upward.

Her final expression mocked him,
sneered at his shock and horror,
tore at his uncomprehending soul,
and predicted what came next.

By: Michael Williams / April 12, 2005

No-Soar Zone

I have often wished
to dive into life
as a cliff diver
into the water below,
leaping out,
soaring free,
trusting to luck
and skill
to carry me through.

Alas, I do not.

Weighted and freighted
by cares, carefulness,
cautions, precautions,
and lurking practicality,
I mostly stand
on the shallow end
testing the water
once, twice, and again,
taking no chances.

I do not even know how.

By: Michael Williams / April 15, 2005

Willful

I've often been called impossible
(I think I'm merely improbable),
headstrong and obstinate,
stubborn, and obdurate -
sometimes even incorrigible.

I can be difficult and contrary
to the point of becoming obstreperous,
and slow to listen to reason, even my own.
If I disagree with you today, 
I might get back to you next month. 

Like a bulldog, once my teeth 
are firmly set into a subject, 
I have to be pried loose from it. 
My feet get firmly planted,
and my heels dug in like an old mule.

If you think you can undermine my position,
pull the rug from beneath my feet, 
or otherwise leave me groundless
and without a leg on which to stand,
you had best not bet on it.

I've been taking levitation lessons. 

By: Michael Williams / April 23, 2005

This poem form is called a Villanelle. The repeated lines are part of the form.

That Awkward Age

She cries and fusses in the night;
Father mutters, "that girl ain't right,"
and so it goes till morning light.

She buys a dress and it's too tight;
can't take it back without a fight.
She cries and fusses in the night

and gives her parents quite a fright
while brother snickers at the sight;
and so it goes till morning light.

She can't wear stripes, she can't wear white,
she can't wear heels 'cause of her height.
She cries and fusses in the night

that she's not daddy's "little sprite" 
because she grew, like, overnight;
and so it goes till morning light.

"Happy fourteenth to our delight"
is on the cake with candles bright.
She cries and fusses in the night,
and so it goes till morning light.

By: Michael Williams / May 2, 2005

This is another Villanelle. I used the proper rhyme scheme here, rather than rhyme all lines the same as I did in the last one.

Shades of Sorrow

She haunts the dawning hours for me,
pale shadow on the early light;
a dream of mine that cannot be.

A life lived out in memory,
bright ray of love lost to the night,
she haunts the dawning hours for me.

I bolt from sleep too late to see
a fleeting glimpse fade out of sight,
a dream of mine that cannot be

who I desired, eternally;
and, though I squeeze my eyes shut tight,
she haunts the dawning hours for me

and I am left without a plea
to rescue me from lost delight:
a dream of mine that cannot be.

I knew a woman, wild and free,
now only know pain’s acid bite;
she haunts the dawning hours for me,
a dream of mine that cannot be.

By: Michael Williams / May 3, 2005

And a Kiss for Life

She brought me a cake
and she gave me a kiss. 
I blew out the candles
and we toasted with cider.

We talked a long time
and watched the sunset.
As she left that night, 
she wished me a happy life. 

Only later did I realize
her kiss had been different.

By: Michael Williams / May 4, 2005

Timeslide

We live our speeded lives
at the knife-point of time,
urged onward by events
just out of our control. 

We were not made for this, 
to be rushed through our lives
seeing nothing but walls
and a blur of faces;

cooped up indoors, cut off
from nature, caged, alone,
living isolated lives 
under fluorescent lights.

We need to escape, walk
our own path for a while,
get back in control, and 
slow down our fleeting lives. 

By: Michael Williams / May 11, 2005

This is a combination of two forms: the Cinquain and the Acrostic. The Acrostic forms a word or phrase with the first letter of each line. Here, the word is "Twins."

Double Up

Two lives
with one image;
individuals, though, 
not mirrors. When you look at them,
see two.

By: Michael Williams / May 11, 2005

There Is Always Another Choice

One path in a wood,
undiverged,
no lesser way to tread;

perhaps I'll choose the
unexplored,
creating one, instead.

By: Michael Williams / May 18, 2005

Trickling

A droplet in the headwaters of my river,
at the wellspring of all I will be; 
from this place, my downstream end 
cannot be seen, so life seems infinite. 

What I will become is beyond the bend,
so my possibilities seem limitless; 
rivulet, creek, stream, tributary,
or mighty river, all are within reach. 

Even now, well advanced on my course,
flowing down the riverbed of my life,
my soul resides from whence I sprung
and whispers to me of possibilities.

By: Michael Williams / May 25, 2005

You Can Go Home Again, but You Can’t Stay

A scent brought me home today. 
So familiar, unexpectedly,
it yanked me out of life 
and plunged me into yesterday

where all was as it used to be
in fondly glowing memory,
untainted by past strife 
and fuzzily trouble-free. 

Then jolted back to now,
recalled by sudden tears
for all I should have said
before time took the chance away.

By: Michael Williams / June 3, 2005

In the following, please note: cat's-paw = light air movement that ripples the surface of water on a calm day.

A Day so Full

cat’s-paws play on the pond
small frogs imitate rusty hinges
tadpoles cluster at water’s edge
dragonflies hover and dart

water bugs skate on the surface
nimbly dodging the cat’s-paws

across the way ducklings paddle
observing and learning from
their own mamma and daddy

oh to be a child again
and have days filled so full
with nothing but time to watch
and the lost wisdom to use them

By: Michael Williams / June 4, 2005

In a Ruined Manor

Remember me as I once was, when I stood straight and strong;
my towers piercing skyward and my walls built stout and long.
I was a work of beauty then, an engineer’s delight;
a myriad of windows kept my hallways full of light.
Each room was warm and spacious with its ceiling vaulted tall;
wood paneling and woven rugs bade welcome one and all.
Rich tapestries, bright murals, and the finest gilded trim;
no one who lived within my walls e’er thought I’d look so grim.
But time and changing fortunes dealt harsh blows to them and me;
and all my former glory is now ruin and debris. 

By: Michael Williams / June 10, 2005

This is another of the cinquain poem form.

Steam Train

New train
ready to ride,
passengers a-plenty!
Fire in the boilers, come on, all
aboard!

By: Michael Williams / June 13, 2005

Never Inclement

A lesson I knew 
instinctively 
as a child: 
when you're 
playing in it, 
every weather's mild.

By: Michael Williams / June 16, 2005

As Had as a Matter

You'd think him quite barking mad 
up until you heard him purr; 
but you've realized, m'lad, 
that it’s just his brain a-whirr. 

"Needle in a crowded stack 
run a rabbit up a flume 
putting up a flak attack 
shooting down an ostrich plume 

"Never tweak a tiger’s tail 
it’ll make you want to smile 
fire a rocket on a rail 
brighten up your bathroom tile 

"Whistle on down to Dixie 
at the drive-in picture show 
loving a girl named Pixie 
with tinkerbells right below" 

If anyone should spot him 
he will only wink and nod, 
"I’m really just a paynim 
and this is my other bod"

By: Michael Williams / June 17, 2005

Gratitude

Some say, "my mother 
gave me phobias, 
lots of traumas, 
and a weekly visit 
to my psychiatrist." 

I reply, "my mom 
gave me an extensive, 
expansive, 
even prodigious, 
vocabulary, 
and taught me 
the good sense 
not to hide it." 

They sigh, "it must 
be wonderful to have 
a mom like that." 

I smile and respond, 
"it is."

By: Michael Williams / June 17, 2005

Water and Waves

He is water. 
She is waves. 

He is simplicity itself, 
so clear that his depths 
stay hidden right in plain view. 

She is restless, complex, 
always in motion, changing, 
each day different than the last. 

Yet he is her support, 
her dependable reservoir; 
keeping a constant level 
however she may rise and fall, 
through ebbing tides 
and raging tsunamis. 

She is his renewal, 
stirring him eternally, 
bringing air and life 
to those unseen depths 
no one else ever touches; 
bringing him out of himself. 

He is water. 
She is waves. 
Together, they are inseparable.

By: Michael Williams / June 19, 2005

This is another limerick.

Read the Fine Print

It began as an innocent fling;
Tommy taught his dog Spot how to sing.
Now Tom feels like a rube,
'cause the mutt's on the tube,
and Spot's agent won't give him a thing.

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2005

The next two are cinquains.

Planting Time

New life
in little pots;
lovingly started, tended,
set out to grow, flower, and make
new life.

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2005

Strange Blossoms

First drops
turn to showers;
around the stadium,
a profusion of umbrella
flowers.

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2005

This is another tanka.

Making Whole Again

Needle, thread, two slim hands
sewing up a damaged shirt,
mom’s soft, gentle words
sewing up a wounded heart;
stitching with the thread of love.

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2005

High Flying

Sunless over the ocean,
moonless over Dubai;
I am not
an astronaut
in never-ending motion,
although I sometimes wonder why.

Worried over Hackensack,
sleepless over Seattle,
insurgent over Iraq;
they’re fighting another battle.

Goodness knows 
my work and woes
are never, ever through.
I’ve still got
an awful lot
of Cleveland left to do.

By: Michael Williams / June 25, 2005

Intervention

Slight breeze lifting, warm, 
offers no relief from the heat.
Concrete under hands,
against the small of the back, 
retains the heat of the day.
Feet don't quite fit 
on the narrow ledge.
Turbulent water flows below.

"I don't know anything any more.
I don't know what life means...
...but mine sure doesn't mean much.
If you're there, I need something;
I need a sign, I need...
...I need you to show me a light."

A flash.

Something small alights
on the bridge
of wire framed glasses
and doesn't move,
even as one hand
pulls them out a little
to allow eyes to focus.

"A lightning bug? 
Is that a joke?"

A flash.

Memories...

...of long summer nights
and childhood friends,
who'd be shocked right now.

...of parents, who always 
spoke of love;
and still do, 
on rare visits home.

...of a big old house,
somehow cool 
on the hottest days.

...of a huge bedroom
and a cozy bed.

...of a firefly,
on every single one
of every remembered
long-ago summer night,
clinging to the window screen
like some kind of nightlight.

A flash.

"I guess I didn't say
what kind of light,
did I?"

A flash.

"Okay, little guy, 
you and I don't belong out here. 
Let's get back, off this bridge;
I'm going home."

A flash.

"oh, yeah...
...and thank you
for the light."

By: Michael Williams / June 30, 2005

The Bubbafly

Walking in a southern field
watching the butterflies,
totally at peace, unprepared
when I got a sudden surprise. 

It was a most American bug, 
with wings red, white, and blue.
It had a tiny red neck
and a tiny "beer gut" too. 

"Well, whaddaya want?"
the creature asked, 
interpreting my stare. 
"That nectar stuff's
pure sugar; a bug
ain’t got a prayer."

With that the fellow
scratched and belched,
then looked me in the eye. 
"Pleased to meet ya. 
Name’s Buggy Joe Bob, 
and I’m a Bubbafly."

"I’d chat a spell
but I gotta find some
food around this dump."
So he flew away. 
It was then I noticed
tiny stars upon his rump.

By: Michael Williams / July 3, 2005

This is another tanka.

Waves

creepers on the shore
smoothing footsteps in the sand
amusing toddlers
no one dreams your origin
is a thousand miles away

By: Michael Williams / July 27, 2005

This was written before a major battle in a play-by-email game in which I am playing. The game is based on medieval times and the situation in Europe about 1320AD, combining diplomacy and combat.

When Medieval Diplomacy Turns to Medieval War

Let the storm clouds gather, 
let the mighty winds blow;
summon forth the thunder
with lightning bolts to throw.

Call the spear and bowman,
stretch all the sinews tight;
sing out to the foeman
that Death will rain tonight.

By: Michael Williams / July 28, 2005

Kiln Doubts

Put thoughts in my head –
ideas, questions, answers -
and make me think.

Fill me with emotions -
tears, laughter, fears -
and make me feel. 

Drive me like chaff 
before a bitter wind
and call it initiative. 

Make me what you will,
because you will,
and tell me I chose.

I don't care.
I won't notice.
I am only clay.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2005

Easy Dreamer

Flowered meadows fill my head with dreams. 
Summer breezes carry my thoughts away. 
I laugh and step back in another day, 
to watch myself wading in shaded streams. 

It isn't hard for me to feel this way. 
I've been an easy dreamer all my life; 
slipping out and ducking away from strife, 
injecting color when my life gets gray.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2005

Recognition

We live our lives
framed in the perceptions 
of those we meet.

We are never any more
nor ever any less
than what we see
reflected in their eyes.

By: Michael Williams / August 22, 2005

You could call this some wishful thinking about the relief efforts for Hurricane Katrina. Needless to say, it didn't quite happen this way.

Just Load the Dang Trucks and Go

"Just go to your warehouses,"
our President said, 
"and load the dang trucks and go.
Just get 'em down there. 
Do it now. 
We'll sort out the money later.
You'll get paid,
now go!"

"You heard the man,"
the CEO answered,
"get that food off the shelves,
all that water too,
and load the dang trucks and go.
A thousand babies could die
while we sit on our butts
and organize our efforts. 
Just load the dang trucks and go."

"You heard 'im, people,"
the team leaders called,
"let's get a move on now. 
It's taken too long to move as it is,
let's make up for all that lost time.
We'll all get our pay,
don't figure your hours. 
Just load the dang trucks and go."

The truckers were waiting
for each loaded trailer, 
they came streaming in by the score.
In steady procession,
without cessation,
at every warehouse door. 
They loaded the dang trucks and went. 

By: Michael Williams / September 2, 2005

Kitten Chaos

Little claws into your legs, little claws into your back;
just when you think it's safe, there's little claws on the attack.
A whirling ball of energy, a flying flash of fur,
a face so darned endearing that you can't stay mad at her,
a speckle-spot behind each ear, a heart upon her nose,
four perfect tiny white feet each adorned with tabby toes,
her eyes alight with innocence, her tail a-swish with grace;
so tell me if you can how she completely wrecked the place.

By: Michael Williams / September 14, 2005

A Hard-Hitting Reporter

Hard hat glinting in the sun, 
ignoring the looming video camera, 
the worker explained patiently: 
"There’s probably more than 
fifty thousand poles down, 
all over the Gulf coast, 
and I don’t know how many 
miles of wire needs replacing." 

Undaunted by anything 
so abstract as a number, 
the reporter demanded to know 
what was the delay 
in getting it all fixed. 
Her voice held a note 
of personal triumph. 

I shook my head in time 
with the man on screen, 
and wondered at her stupidity. 
Would there be, I asked aloud, 
fifty thousand light poles 
lying unused and waiting 
to be found across all of America?

By: Michael Williams / October 2, 2005

I Would

I would reach out and calm the roaring wind
that echoes in your mind and let it mend; 
I'd ease the devastation in the land,
restore its beauty with a loving hand...

...if I could. 

I would bring back the scenes of yesterday
and sweep this twisted, broken mess away.
I would return the life that's left this place
just for, once more, that smile upon your face...

...if I only could.

By: Michael Williams / October 4, 2005

Autumn Sand

Red leaves lay strewn across white sand
like spattered blood on ivory skin;
a trail of footprints coming from nowhere,
leading off to some place unknown, 
traces a scar across the smooth expanse. 

I think of you, think of us, 
and – inevitably – think of me alone. 

The wind cuts through my light clothes.
It chills me, coloring my thoughts 
like the leaves blown across the beach: 
blood red, pale amber, burnt-out orange.

I lift my eyes to watch a breaker
roll up the beach, dying on the sand
in a last whisper of spent foam. 
I recede with it, sighing over
the lost opportunities of summer. 

By: Michael Williams / October 7, 2005

Finality

We sit across this table, 
hands neatly folded, showing nothing,
as poker players might hold their cards.

Once, we would have smiled,
held hands, and looked lovingly,
deeply, into each other's eyes. 

Now, we fidget, scanning the walls, 
noting details in paintings,
mentally taking inventory
of the contents of the bookcases,
counting the ceiling tiles,
and assessing each other
when we can steal an uncaught glance,
as the strangers we're paying 
to argue for us settle the details
of the dissolution of our life together.

We couldn't even agree 
on who got the family lawyer.

By: Michael Williams / October 7, 2005

It's All in the Perception

In a bar in downtown Tokyo, 
a young lady looks up
at the American soldier
seated a few stools down. 

"Hey Joe, you lonely? 
Me Mitzi, me like GI.
You want good time? 
Me live close, you like?"

Not quite drunk enough
to abandon his morals 
for her favors, the soldier
shakes his head and leaves. 

Behind him, she shrugs, 
then turns her attention
back to the young lady
seated on her other side.

"Anyway, as I was saying,
after we went to the movie
last week, I hooked up 
with this American sailor..."

By: Michael Williams / October 13, 2005

Once upon a Summer Morning

Ducks paddle on our little pond; 
bees drone from flower to flower. 
Doing chores in the morning sun, 
I watch clouds move in from the west. 

Feed for the ducks, feed for the hens, 
fresh hay for the cow and her calf, 
each part of a daily routine 
that's familiar and unhurried. 

Walking back to the old feed shed, 
I hear commotion in the woods. 
There’s such noise I expect to see 
a flock of blue jays taking wing. 

No jays appear, nor any bird. 
I listen a little closer 
and realize it's no creature; 
then, looking up, I understand. 

I duck in the feed shed's shelter, 
stand in the open door, and watch 
as a wall of rain approaches, 
flashing and sparkling in the sun. 

By: Michael Williams / October 15, 2005

A bit of Halloween humor...

Death Lays It Down

I like them boney,
let there be no doubt;
I'm Death, no phony,
and I'm rapping it out.

Don't try to get flirty
with that meat on your curve,
but 30-6-30 
brings me on like a perv.

Just doing my duty,
I lay you in your grave.
Wait a hundred, cutie,
I will be your love slave.

My whole body trembled;
girl, I think you're so sweet
when you're disassembled
and lying on a sheet.

Don't give me no invective,
I'll tell you once again:
you grinners ain't attractive
until you shed your skin.

By: Michael Williams / October 18, 2005

This is another Villanelle.

I Could Care Less

I say I really could care less, 
I can ignore the things you do; 
I’ll manage it someday, I guess. 

Our love affair is such a mess; 
good times have always been too few. 
I say I really could care less, 

but I can’t live with this much stress. 
It's clear I should walk out on you; 
I’ll manage it someday, I guess. 

You laugh at me, at my distress, 
and say what I suspect is true. 
I say I really could care less. 

I ought to find a new address, 
give up and just admit we’re through; 
I’ll manage it someday, I guess. 

I used to thrill to your caress 
till every day brought something new. 
I say I really could care less; 
I’ll manage it someday, I guess.

By: Michael Williams / October 19, 2005

In a Morning Light

The soft voice from the bedroom 
asks me to turn out the hall light. 
She's facing the wrong direction
and it's in her eyes this morning.
I slap at the switch, muttering,
not exactly under my breath. 

She could roll over, after all.
The bedroom already stays dark,
and I have to use a flashlight
to avoid stepping on cat toys,
bouncing a toe off the dresser, or
pairing olive pants with a red shirt.

One more concession to her hours,
a different work schedule from mine;
it won't occur to her late tonight
when that light will be in my eyes
as she puts her things away and 
tells me of the events of her day.

For a few seconds as I'm fuming,
I wonder what I'm doing here,
and question the reasons I stay. 
It is then I look into a moment: 
a bleak existence with little color,
less joy, and no light at all. 

Whatever momentary anger I feel,
life without her love is unthinkable. 
So, the hall light stays off, and
when she arrives home tonight,
when that light shines in my eyes,
I will ask her how her day went.

By: Michael Williams / October 21, 2005

Another Halloween piece...

Prospective Buyer

The battered door creaked open, a flashlight beam flicked inside; 
fading into the darkness like a thief seeking to hide. 
A cautious figure followed slowly, pulse throbbing with dread;
the realtor’s curious words echoing in his head. 

"This sheet has the history, what we know about the place,
although I have to tell you that it's bogus in this case. 
It's back for sale because the last buyer was in arrears; 
just a silly rumor that it's been a warehouse for years." 

Out of the full moon's light, he worried over those statements.
Why fuss if it was a warehouse? Furthermore, what shipments 
could have been stored in a ramshackle mansion such as this? 
He froze. The door slammed shut behind him. Something was amiss. 

The floor writhed as though possessed, the walls had a pale blue glow, 
and he heard a guttural rumble welling from below. 
The door was locked, of course; some thing shot past him in the gloom. 
He panicked and, seeking an exit, fled from room to room. 

What had that man not told him? He pulled out the sheet to check, 
and read in trembling flashlight beam, hair rising on his neck: 
"The only previous owner who is known to survive 
claims the place is a were-house, the full moon brings it alive."

By: Michael Williams / October 22, 2005

This was contributed to a poem thread about Faerie folk.

Autumn Dances

By: Michael Williams / October 24, 2005

This is something of a fairy tale and/or children's story. It was a serial contribution to the same poem thread as the piece immediately preceeding.

The Vole's Adventure

The Hawk's Tale

From wing on high I can espy the revels far below; 
a hawk's-eye view of what they do - oh, all the things I know! 
Amid the polk, good Faerie folk, you need not feel a dread; 
but when shying from eyes prying, consider overhead.

Now is the time for HawkEye's contribution to the fun. 
Call all small sprites and faerie tykes, and bring them one by one. 
Bid them clasp around my neck, then tuck a leg beneath each wing. 
I'll fly with each up to the heights of which their elders sing. 

For their parents once soared aloft with other hawks, you bet; 
don't fret for their safety, nary a hawk has lost one yet.
So each one of the youngsters has a turn on high astride;
from the greatest to the lowest, each gets an equal ride.

Hawks are egalitarian, without an eagle's air,
always have we taken pains to keep the ritual fair.
Only one small and daring vole of all there in the vale
believed the Hawk-Pledge of safety - but thereby hangs a tale.

The Vole's Adventure

I climbed up on HawkEye's back and he soared into the air.
We flew and flew, ever so long, I could see everywhere!
But just as we were flying back, I thought I heard a call;
I asked Hawkeye to check because I saw no one at all. 

He said, "I have her spotted. As I bank, please take a look.
I have seen a mother meadowmouse down in yonder brook;
She's clinging to a piece of tree limb, tight as she can do. 
It's stuck in mud, but working loose; I need some help from you." 

I cried, "How can I save her? I cannot swim at all, sir; 
even if I could, how could I pull her from the water?" 

"I do not need your swimming, what I need is you to speak; 
talk to her and convince her that she need not fear my beak." 

I shouted out and told her that she would be safe with him. 
As he took off to get her, there was motion in that limb. 
He plucked her out and brought her to the bank alongside me 
just as the water caught the limb and sent it floating free. 

Mother meadowmouse was shaking, from fear as much as cold,
"A meadowmouse saved by a hawk I'd never have foretold.
Not to lessen your favor, I must ask one more beside;
kind sir, I live some way upstream - and on the other side."

Hawkeye bowed, "I thought it would be you had a way to go,
If you climb on my back, I will take you to your meadow.
Since I can recognize you by the markings on your ears,
I will pledge from this time forward, of me you have no fears."

We both climbed on and HawkEye flew her home as he had said;
and then he brought me back, saying it's time I was in bed.

HawkEye's Epilogue

There's only one thing more to add and then this tale is done:
the words of this vole lass are true, I vouch for every one.

By: Michael Williams / October 26, 2005

More Than a Mile

If I saw the world through your eyes, I wonder what I'd see
with your understanding; what would my understanding be? 

Would my view be different? I am pretty sure it would;
I think I'd enjoy a walk with your eyes through a snowy wood. 
It would be so good to see all the things that give you joy,
and see, with your intensity, your newborn baby boy.
I'd love to share your vision while out walking in the rain,
and I could know you better if I looked out through your pain.

If I saw the world through your eyes, I wonder what I'd see;
with your understanding, could I dare turn your eyes to me?

By: Michael Williams / November 1, 2005

Netted

I lost my way inside your eyes
and was added to your collection;
falling hard for that least of lies - 
you felt we had a connection.

A cripple reaching for a crutch,
too aware of my deficits;
needing to be wanted so much - 
the soul pays when the heart commits.

I lost my way inside your eyes
and never will emerge again.
I've joined the other butterflies,
each transfixed with a lover's pin.

By: Michael Williams / November 19, 2005

Winter Hush

Deep in a quiet woods, 
natural seating provided 
by a forked and bent tree, 
I close my eyes and listen 
to large flakes of snow 
landing pat-pat-pat.

By: Michael Williams / December 10, 2005

A Better Present

Just when you believe you know all the things that Christmas means,
the snow, the people, the presents, and all the reds and greens,
Christians celebrating the promise in the Christ child’s birth,
Rudolph and Santa Claus, and all the little children's mirth;
this season of wonders turns up yet another answer
in a call from Mom, "Dad’s test was negative for cancer."

By: Michael Williams / December 24, 2005

Old Artwork

So odd to find myself
immortalized on a wall,
the striving of my youth
preserved beyond its day;
the affectionate display
of my proud parents. 
It's a time machine
in a decorative frame,
and I taste an echo
of milk and cookies.

By: Michael Williams / December 24, 2005

Blasted

For a moment of shattered time
I felt immune, untouched
by the heat of your words...

...and then the shock hit.

By: Michael Williams / January 17, 2006

Madame Mata

You relax in blacks
on a bed of red
to dream a scheme;
soft smile with guile,
a threat in velvet.

By: Michael Williams / January 22, 2006

This is another of the nonet form.

Red Sky at Night

The last rays of fading sunlight paint
streaks of vermillion and scarlet
across scattered overcast.
Gusting breezes propel
crimson leaves aloft,
swirling in the
darkening
Autumn
sky.

By: Michael Williams / January 26, 2006

Our History, Ourselves

I come from agrarian stock:
people who worked the land,
who ate the fruits
of their own sweat.

While I have never farmed, 
I have the background,
the knowledge, the experience,
and a sense of shared history. 

And yes, I'm proud of it.

Have you ever stood 
in an open field
with no buildings in sight
in any direction - and 
you didn't have to take
a vacation to be there? 

Have you ever waded a stream
on a summer day
beneath overhanging trees
just because you could,
and not because
you paid for the trip? 

Have you ever walked
through acres of trees,
alone with your thoughts,
and felt a deep sense 
of timeless beauty
no man could ever build? 

Have you ever heard a man
speak of the erosion
of his land or the loss
of livestock and livelihood,
the destruction of his dreams,
feeling your own sense of loss?

If not, then I pity you.

By: Michael Williams / January 26, 2006

Blood on the Sand

He stalks into the arena, head held erect and proud,
with sweeping bow and swirling cape acknowledging the crowd.
His suit of lights sparkles like bright stars in a midnight sky;
though threadbare in spots, it still can catch and dazzle the eye.

The bull appears as though conjured, a nightmare in a dream;
his nostrils in the crisp air truly seem to belch forth steam.
Lowering his head, he charges, raging across the sand;
the matador leads with his cape, sword in his other hand. 
His thrust is sure and true each pass, the bull just brushing by,
as muscles remember rhythms his brain cannot supply.

At length, the duel is ended, the way it always must.
One slip and he is hooked and thrown, lies broken in the dust.
A wisp of smoke, the bull is gone, the spectral crowd wants more;
but this night's show is over for the Zombie Matador.

By: Michael Williams / January 29, 2006

Quietness

A blanket of snow
lends any setting
a sense of solitude;
stillness and silence
transcending forever.

We walk hand in hand
down a shaded lane;
just overhanging trees,
the snow, and us,
all alone together.

By: Michael Williams / January 29, 2006

Grieving

We hide our unwanted emotion
like ice upon a running stream, 
the coolness that shows above
belies the turmoil underneath.

Sometimes, for just a moment,
the hidden torrent breaks through;
foaming over the calm exterior
before being submerged once more.

By: Michael Williams / January 31, 2006

Duckling Day

Ducklings all upon a bank:
nervous, hesitating,
even with mom's encouragement.

One by one, each little mind
finds its way - to trust,
to momma - and takes the plunge. 

Glorious moment of life:
when you realize
what you were born to do.

By: Michael Williams / January 31, 2006

This was in answer to a challenge to write in the style of Ogden Nash.

The Whippoorwill

The whippoorwill's unending call
might seem quite harsh to one and all.
But then,
if we knew what Will committed
we might be as discomfited.

By: Michael Williams / February 13, 2006

Ups and Downs

Climb up - to a quiet lake
in the crook of a mountain's arm.
Sit down - and take your rest
in a landscape lost to harm.

By: Michael Williams / February 13, 2006

Last-Mile Bridge

We ride a bridge to firelight upon a crimson morning;
and though it's just a new day's start, I see a dire warning.
In my mind, a heavenly hand sent fire into this sky,
a message from a loving God to children gone awry.
For on the day of Judgment, when the lost are cast away,
their final path might lead them out just such a stark causeway.

But in the fiery turbulence that burns away the night,
with the call to repentance there is a promise of light;
and though the storms are raging wild and follow as we roam,
that final bridge of a walk with God leads His children home.

By: Michael Williams / February 13, 2006

Whatever Works

The moon wasn't silver,
The air wasn't crisp.
His words weren't honeyed;
in fact, he had a lisp.
He didn't fall upon one knee
like generations of men;
but dang it all if the boy
didn't get the girl again.

By: Michael Williams / February 14, 2006

I really did find the bud described below, and presented it to my wife with this verse.

Bud on a Sidewalk

A carnation bud lay fallen, ignored in fading day;
broken away, unheeded, from a Valentine bouquet.
Plucked up from its certain fate, given a drink of water,
now it lends my "I love you" a bit of extra color.
I’ll show you through this little bud the words I cannot tell;
with your love you’ve rescued me and given me life as well.

By: Michael Williams / February 14, 2006

It's probably easy to see, but this piece was sparked from the previous one.

Once a Broken Bud

A tiny bud, just opening, lays severed on the ground;
near-trampled and unheeded by everyone around.
It should have been an integral part of a large bouquet;
now, broken off and chilling fast, it will not last the day.

Now a footstep pausing, a reaching hand to lift it up;
the little bud is wrapped and moistened, safe within a cup.
Taken into light and warmth, the bloom opens by and by
then it is presented, received with a delighted sigh. 

Once only one among many, then almost cast away,
redeemed and brought to importance, the highlight of a day.
This little bud, sunk so low, has become worthwhile to see;
and so it is within my life between my Lord and me.

By: Michael Williams / February 15, 2006

One Waiting

In a dream she sat and waited,
waited in a mountainside garden,
in the chilled and snow-swept garden
for her true love to come to her. 

He would come to drink her beauty, 
come to take her from the garden,
from the garden to his homeland,
distant homeland on the plain.

As she waited there she shivered, 
cold and lonely as she waited,
watching for her absent lover
from the plain to come to her.

From the distance came a rider
galloped to the garden's gate, 
stepped inside and he found her,
beauty frozen as she slept.

By: Michael Williams / February 16, 2006

I Do Not Need

I do not need to carry a picture.

Your face is with me always;
everywhere I travel 
there is the corner of my mind
where the candles burn
and the black-draped portrait hangs. 

I do not need to be reminded of you.

The scent of lilac outside our door
floods me with memories. 
Sometimes I can't even make it inside
before sinking to my knees. 

What I need is what I can't have. 

What I have is a love that can never die,
and a lover that did. 

By: Michael Williams / February 23, 2006

Fields

The crop of beans 
stretched away in smooth rows,
unbroken except by the road
and the realtor's sign. 

"When I was your age, young'un,"
said Grandpa,
"a field like this
meant just one thing: work."

He paused,
pulled his handkerchief,
and dabbed at one eye
while the boy watched intently. 

"I wish I'd known then
what it means to me now."

By: Michael Williams / February 23, 2006

Unicorn Dream

The child awoke with the images
still sharp and claiming attention;
the nighttime world not giving space
to the daytime world's convention.

Unaware of the mystical, 
though caught up in its sway;
the little one saw a unicorn
and a polar bear cub at play.

The friendly unicorn dipped his head,
the little cub stroked the horn. 
In the innocence of that touch
it gleamed like a golden morn. 

The white cub slowly transformed
in the disappearing wild
as wakefulness changed it back
to the watching little child,

The unicorn became an icicle
suffused with dawn's bright glow;
there were no words for the sense of loss
when it fell and shattered below.

By: Michael Williams / March 1, 2006

If you've never read C. S. Lewis' Narnia series, go buy it or borrow it and read it. If you have read it, you may understand the following very well.

Spellbound

Sitting on my bed, 
slipping into night; 
just a few pages before 
turning out the light. 

Enter the world of Narnia, 
to walk with great Aslan; 
travel on the Dawn Treader, 
complete the quest if we can. 

Too soon it's over, 
I'm at the story's end - 
out the window, 
dawn is breaking... 

...it's happened again

By: Michael Williams / March 2, 2006

First Influence

Stepping out my door
I cross a lawn in darkness.
Heavy clouds line the eastern horizon;
above is the deep blue of clear sky,
hinted with the first touch of morning.
A single bright star
draws my eyes upward,
where more are still visible.

I take a breath,
hold it a moment,
feel the breeze ruffling my jacket.
Whatever else may greet me this day,
nature got to me first.

By: Michael Williams / March 3, 2006

Piano Riffs

Melody springs effortlessly 
from his fingers, responding 
to the beat of his soul 
as he plays the strains 
of our dreams and memories 
without ever having met us.

By: Michael Williams / March 5, 2006

Ruined Gold

The leaves on the doorstep 
were gold when they fell, 
stripped from shivering limbs, 
dashed in a driving rainstorm. 

Be two years ago tomorrow, 
that rain on the day she left. 
All that remain are shadows: 
on my doorstep, on my heart.

By: Michael Williams / March 5, 2006

Ruststone Creek

Sometimes a question is not worth asking: 
what’s the point of debating whether 
a glass is half-empty or half-full 
when it lies shattered on the table? 

Silence has assumed a new color: 
golden virtue no longer applies 
where the summation of wasted life 
is an airbrushed study in crimson. 

Warm sun brightens a lily-strewn field 
as a stream ripples over red rocks. 
Mockingbirds chorus mourning dirges 
till gurgling drowns all other sounds. 

The obituary only noted 
the subject had died alone at home. 
No relatives could ever be found; 
the funeral was unattended.

By: Michael Williams / March 5, 2006

Peril on the High Seas

Crimson Beth is a pirate, terror of the Barbary Coast,
leading the law a merry chase, elusive as a ghost.
She is feared far and wide; so deadly and swift is her ship,
merchant tubs strike their sails for they cannot give her the slip.

No other pirate can match her, few will even dare try.
Brave men turn pale as death at the sound of her battle cry.
But Crimson Beth has a new foe, one that has stirred her wrath
"Ah Ma! Who ever heard of a pirate in Bubble Bath?"

By: Michael Williams / March 9, 2006

None

Call me None. 

When the rustle
of a step in silence
echoes like a whip crack,

when dead memories
rise up despite 
all your struggles 
to smother them,

when song escapes you
leaving your soul empty
and you can't remember
how to recapture it,

when you cry: is there
none to help me? 

Call me None. 

By: Michael Williams / March 10, 2006

Winddrift Heart

Sails spread their wings above me.
I must fly over sea,
body and soul,
to a port far away;
yet my heart remains steadfastly here.

I am wild as a storm front,
free as a kestrel on a rising wind,
mere location cannot hold me.

I will send you cinnabar
and coconut laced with rum.
I will sing you verses
of faraway summer beaches,
of a thousand golden morns,
of moonlit coves that wait
to be explored arm-in-arm.

I am an empty vessel;
I can only be filled by
the ruby wine that is you.

By: Michael Williams / March 13, 2006

The "Little People"

Those who sport with leprechauns had better be sharp and quick 
or else they'll likely find they're on the short end of a trick. 
It's said their love of pranks has history rich as their brogue 
and though one may be charming, he is sure to be a rogue.

By: Michael Williams / March 17, 2006

Birdsong Memory

A whippoorwill's call surprises me.
Suddenly I'm lying in a bunk
in a truck-mounted camper
near the shore of Kentucky Lake.

The scents of the lake 
drift through the window,
flow through my thoughts,
counterpointed by the whippoorwill.
My grandparents' voices mingle,
words lost in the indistinct buzz 
of a long-ago conversation. 

It's a strange lullaby, 
but quite effective. 
The boy loses out to sleep,
and I smile in my present.

By: Michael Williams / March 21, 2006

Granddaddy's Store

The heavy glass door swinging open,
and the ding-linging bell overhead;
I can't remember the name that was
out on the sign; it was always just 
Granddaddy Beck's Sporting Goods Store.

The smell of the polished wood floor,
paint on brand-new outboard motors,
the box under that roll-top desk
with wood shavings and tobacco spit,
a faint aroma of sweetness hovering
around the rack of empty bottles
by the old lever-cranked Coke machine,
and of course, the earthy odors from 
the nightcrawler case in the very back,
all mixed with many more into a scent
that always said "Granddaddy's store" to me. 

On the shelves lining the walls
and in the glassed display cases
were so many things, of so many kinds,
that never seemed to change very much.
I don't know when I finally realized,
when Granddaddy sold some of them,
he replaced them from the back storeroom.

I remember the day he outfitted me - 
just like one of his best customers -
with a brand-new rod-and-reel
straight out of his window display,
a new tackle box right off the shelf, 
and an array of hooks and bobbers
and sinkers and lures - including the one,
long, arched, and shiny-silver, 
that Mom didn't like because of its name...
...Hellbender. 

I think he gave me that one on purpose.

By: Michael Williams / March 28, 2006

Captain Kid

Set course for Port Trigellian across a brindled sea,
with four o'clocks to windward and bright marigolds alee.
A morning-glory banner flies atop a larkspur mast.
The sheet-sails billow overhead; the wind is running fast.

The helmsman's firm hand guides our ship; the clouds go scudding by.
We chant a song of war with iris-cutlasses held high.
Whatever foe awaits us, and however great the cost,
we sail to free Trigellian before the daylight's lost.

Aloft, the lookout calls alert as landfall's drawing near,
around the point, into the harbor, angle for the pier.
The dandelion troops, crouched low, are ranked around the bay;
with cannon blasts, from water guns, we blow them all away!

We storm ashore and, street-by-street, advance into the town;
our enemies have had enough and throw their weapons down.
But over crying, cheering throngs we heed our momma's call,
'cause Daddy's home from work, and he brought dinner from the mall.

By: Michael Williams / March 10, 2006

Last Summer

As the plain beyond the river, 
so was my life - flat, featureless,
and without any distinction
or change - and I was happy.

Last September, she erupted
into my existence, disrupting
everything - even the river
ran backward for a time. 

My geography has changed,
can never be what it was,
but I like what I see when I look
across my soul these days.

By: Michael Williams / April 5, 2006

Enchantment

Fairies, pixies, and sprites
swooped and played tag
with eagles and hawks,
tracing sparkles in the air.

Rainbows arched and stretched,
moving across the sky
on a cloudless canvas
to a rhythm all their own.

Gentle breezes played music
on tightly stretched vines
while a chorus of frogs
kept background harmony.

The quiet girl smiled her joy
clasping hands over her heart
as though to contain it,
lest it escape her frail body. 

She whispered her thanks
for another beautiful day
and hoped for many more.
The Dragon at her side nodded. 

"What are her chances, doctor?"

"I don't know, ma'am. All I can say
is that her brain remains active
and all trace of the virus is gone.
Taken together, I believe there's hope."

By: Michael Williams / April 7, 2006

Summer Sweet

Warm sunny days gone by, 
lazy summer nights recalled,
ever so many years ago.

The wooded, untended acreage,
an area surrounded by homes, 
was a child's green wonderland.

It was on the path they met,
walked, talked, and played,
picking wildflower bouquets.

She was five, he was six.
Days stretched out so long
that summer seemed endless.

One breezy day, she told him,
"When we get married, someday,
we'll have our wedding here." 

He never returned to the woods.

By: Michael Williams / May 16, 2006

The Fisherman's Menu

I watched a fisherman checking his lines,
working his boat from point to point. 
Two little children rode in the front,
watching their papa, quiet and enthralled. 

I couldn't help thinking of the adage
about the cobbler's kids and new shoes.
I wondered briefly before moving on,
how often the fisherman's kids eat fish.

By: Michael Williams / May 25, 2006

Tempest Watched

A few nights ago, beneath 
an early-darkening sky,
I stood on my carport 
to watch an evening rain. 

In my sanctuary I stood 
as winds strengthened 
and rain blew at shallow angles 
to the waiting earth. 

I felt myself an observer, 
almost separate from events,
until a sudden shift of wind 
showed me I was still involved.

By: Michael Williams / May 25, 2006

Contrasts

A ship in port is a skeleton,
its bones hung in the air.
A ship at dock is a scarecrow frame,
only sticks hanging there. 

The moored ship is lifeless and inert,
is nothing to inspire;
has no aspect of its quiet mien
to light a soul on fire.

But a sailing ship put out to sea,
spreading its canvas full,
ignites a spark in the watching heart
and exerts a mystic pull.

The same can be said about mankind:
nothing to see at rest.
It's only embarked on a purpose
that we're seen at our best.

By: Michael Williams / June 7, 2006

Get Away from It All

Come sit out of the misting rain;
we're safe beneath this roof. 
Though it may look about to fall,
it's been this way for a decade.

Sit and ponder the land around;
take a peaceful breath, exhale,
and contemplate the sound of it
loud against the enfolding silence.

Leave the tumbling world behind,
and the scrambling mind it brings.
Let go of it all on an expelled sigh,
and relax your wearied brain.

By: Michael Williams / June 7, 2006

This next was triggered by watching interviews with veterans of WWII on the History Channel.

Memorial Day, Every Day

I've marched out in a driving rain.
I've knelt on bloodied fields in pain.
I've fought through mud up to my waist,
and I'll never forget its taste.
My mind still calculates the cost,
calls nightly roll of those we lost,
and sends them to me as I sleep.

There's nothing I can do to keep
those faces from their nightly show,
but there's a certain truth I know:
that were my nighttime comrades gone,
I'd be bereft that they'd moved on
and left me here alone to face
a world that's grown a stranger place,
that rarely slows its beat to see
this relic curiosity.

By: Michael Williams / June 15, 2006

Like a Peg Hole in a Round Square

I think if I had become a doctor, 
you'd be eating apples daily; 
if our love was an antique mantel clock 
its winding key would be missing. 

The eternal fountain of our happiness 
is choked with dust and silent, 
and the transport toward our bright future 
is a stationary bicycle. 

My attempts at cheerful optimism 
are rapidly fading away, 
while the burning torch I carry for you 
gutters in the changing winds. 

Beautiful darling, do you still want me? 
Or does my presence create a crowd?

By: Michael Williams / July 5, 2006

My Lady's Finest

Strung with beads of midnight dew,
prism'd by rays of morning sun, 
one spider's circling web becomes
the new shawl for the faerie queen.

By: Michael Williams / July 6, 2006

Sprinkling Thoughts

Steady drizzle seems like an afterthought, as though Nature, 
caught short, is stretching what little supply she has on hand. 
Walking, I get wet, but by imperceptible degrees;
I abruptly realize I have been soaked for some time. 

Trees offer slight shelter, but leaves accumulate moisture
until one, overburdened, tips and triggers a cascade,
surprising me with a spattering bombardment of drops
and touching off an explosion of much-needed laughter.

Birds stay mostly under cover, though a few brave the wet;
I hear an occasional disgruntled chirp of complaint.
Do avian courtships get postponed like Little League games? 
If so, it's no wonder they're so grumpy: we're losing time!

By: Michael Williams / July 6, 2006

Now Never Is

We live within a fleeting now:
before our brains have grasped it, 
the moment is already gone, 
receding into memory.

Awareness of our own existence
trails behind it like a puppy,
always hurrying to catch up
but never quite quick enough.

By: Michael Williams / July 6, 2006

Hawkwing

soar upon a thermal
ride on a rising wind
force under each feather
lifting away from ground

hover aloft weightless
hours without numbering
song of the urging air
serenading my wings

By: Michael Williams / July 17, 2006

At the Speed of Think

Thoughts zip through my mind
so quickly, sometimes,
that I fail to hold onto them
and I wonder:
are they getting faster
or am I getting slower?

By: Michael Williams / July 26, 2006

Puffins

If you could peek inside those massive, important egos,
you'd see an absurd little person puffing away on an air nozzle
and about to collapse from the exertion. 

You'd think occasionally there'd be time to take a break, 
but that's wrong - you see, all egos have a slow leak,
so it takes all that huffing, puffing, and tending
to keep them from shrinking back to reality.

And nothing kills an ego faster than contact with reality. 

By: Michael Williams / July 27, 2006

Come Ride the Little Train that is Rollin' Off the Track...

Sometimes my orderly mind comes completely off its wheels;
my train of thought jumps from its tracks and strikes off through the fields.
A turtle has a prismed shell, a robin's singing blues,
on yonder branch a goldfinch sits and warbles other hues.
Come sit beneath a waterrise and get quite dry with me
or clamber up above it to catch water for your tea.

Steady wind blows in the trees but can't pick a direction;
branches wave in different ways, as if they'd no connection.
Fluffy clouds dance with bright sunshine to light up after noon; 
and as they all go scudding they are dusting off the moon. 
Waves of flowers sparkle as they ripple across the land;
come splashing through in midnight dew and track across the sand.

Over here is a garden plot worked up for growing rocks;
I wonder what they planted for that crop of bobby socks?
The shadow of an evening breeze coolly fluttering by
draws my attention to a flight of whimsy in the sky.
Alas, the excursion ends, as I always know it must
but there will be another day when reality goes bust.

By: Michael Williams / July 27, 2006

Of Bubbles

I've always felt as though my mind
was a half-bubble off plumb 
to everyone's view of "normal;"
I'm just a little off-kilter. 

But when snipers kill on interstates,
looters destroy what they cannot steal,
lusting adults prey on children, 
companies ruin lives for profit, and
people hate in the name of a loving God,
a half-bubble doesn't seem so much.

By: Michael Williams / July 28, 2006

Sandshine

Dawn was somewhere 
centuries of miles ago
as I shift into park;
The motor coughs once
as I turn and pull the key. 

Sunlight high overhead
erases all shadows.
A gleaming stretch of tan
promises only one thing. 

I roll down the windows.
It's got a white roof;
I'm good for a while.
I let my eyes almost close
to filter out the bright.

I see a barefoot boy,
dashing to water,
nearly take flight.
Landing hard, 
he becomes a crane,
holding back red 
as he calls for Mom.

Running a finger 
along the line on my heel,
I try to remember 
which hurt worse:
the cut, or the other foot,
jammed into sun-drenched sand,
and how long was it
before I could put weight
on either one. 

Behind me, there's a stir:
"Are we there yet, Dad?"
I check the lunch cooler
and the first-aid kit
before turning around. 

"We sure are, sport.
Don't forget your beach shoes."

By: Michael Williams / July 31, 2006

Novel Approach

"You must be a Friday's Child!"
I was running Saturday errands,
and the exclamation surprised me. 

I turned, one eyebrow arching;
a slightly-built man approached.
I felt a prickling
at the nape of my neck.

"Why would you say that?"

"Anyone looking at you can see it!
Why, loving and giving 
stand out in everything about you!"

Ah, that old rhyme.

"I represent a charity
that supports children's
relief organizations
around the globe, surely
you'd like to donate?"

I looked for long seconds
at his well-tailored suit,
immaculately polished shoes, 
rings, watch, and gold chain.

"Sir: I may, as you suggest,
be a Friday's Child,
but I was not born yesterday."

By: Michael Williams / July 31, 2006

C'est Moi

I am a cloud in a late summer sky,
the one you see scudding crosswise
to the path of every other cloud.

I am one reed, among many hundreds,
leaning stubbornly into the wind.

I am a goose, flying in formation,
in between the wings of the "V".

I am the singer in a chorused melody
who decides harmony would be nice. 

I am who I am, unreservedly, and always
flying into the face of every storm,
a seeker of the paths that deviate,
but I am quietly a rebel, not loudly.

By: Michael Williams / August 2, 2006

Changes

When I doodle, it's all lines and regular shapes;
I look at the results with some dismay. 
My thoughts follow well-worn steps in regular paths;
the destinations are drearily predictable.

So much of who I am and what I do follows a pattern;
so little of me steps out of the enfolding box
or even sees that there is a box around me,
let alone appreciates the restrictions it imposes.

But when I write, I am different. 
I have no boxes, and my mind roams;
I cross boundaries with breathless ease
and watch them crumble at my touch. 

I wish I could always be what I become
when I free my mind to create with words.

By: Michael Williams / August 3, 2006

The next eight were in answer to a challenge to write in the style of Ogden Nash.

The Goldfinch

The goldfinch, with rapacious greed,
devours mountains of thistle seed.
My wallet is getting lighter
just feeding the little blighter.

By: Michael Williams / August 8, 2006

The Armadillo

Ponder now the armadillo, 
and his single peccadillo:
he will not argue, fuss, or scold,
if he's annoyed, you'll find him rolled.

By: Michael Williams / August 8, 2006

The Kitten

No matter how much you're smitten,
beware the cute little kitten.
Whether it's playful or annoyed,
its tiny claws are soon employed.

By: Michael Williams / August 8, 2006

Rainfall

Falling rain is a wondrous thing,
summer or winter, fall or spring.
But wonder might be abated
if you're getting inundated.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2006

Making Light of the Dark

It only takes a bit of whimsy,
any reason, even flimsy,
to take a subject quite profound
and paint it up to make it clowned.

Even if the subject's painful,
smiles or laughter can be gainful;
get the bitterness distorted
and its power is aborted. 

Tyrants hate laughter, here is why
it peels the rafters, shows the sky.
Humor is never submissive;
of power, it is dismissive. 

Take anyone with a sad frown
and make them up into a clown.
They might not end up happier,
but their face will be snappier.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2006

Summer Heat

Some might say it's good for the wheat
to have extended spells of heat.
I don't mean to make them dither, 
but even the wheat can wither.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2006

The Tulip

The tulip stood before the law
for the murder of the coleslaw.
The charge would have been dismissed till
she threatened the judge with her pistil.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2006

The Rat

Now here is Matt, the graveyard rat. 
Puzzled by an encrypted cat, 
'twas caught in a mausoleum; 
stuffed, mounted in this museum, 
on display for us to see him.

By: Michael Williams / August 9, 2006

In an Older Day

Leaned against the doorway 
of a workshop building 
my father and grandfather built, 
I watch rain falling.

Drops pass close to me,
not quite touching;
I can feel the air 
cooling from their passage.

Somewhere in my mind
is busily cataloging
the sounds of the drops,
a nearly infinite task.

My mind wanders aimlessly
through a thousand thoughts
I'll never remember later;
finally, it wanders off alone
and leaves me peace. 

It's the sounds of the rain I recall. 

By: Michael Williams / August 17, 2006

Storm Forecast

There's a cold rain falling, 
chilling the land, washing
away richness from the souls
of men, women, and children;
leaching all colors from 
the grand tapestry of life
and replacing them with
moody grays and somber blacks. 

There's a cold rain falling,
laced with poison, eating
away innocence and happiness,
replacing it with nothing
except a bitter stew of despair.
The downpour spares no one;
the great and small get wet. 

There's a cold rain falling,
it's called religious hate.

By: Michael Williams / August 17, 2006

A Parable

And the kingdom of Heaven
was likened unto a carnival, 
with rides of every kind,
midway games and entertainments,
cotton candy, peanuts, ices,
hot dogs, and bags of popcorn
all in abundance for everyone
who would step up and ask for it.

Then the dour men by the empty till
asked: "Where are the gatekeepers? 
Where are the gates, and the fences?
What keeps out the sinners and unworthy?"

And the Lord looked at them sharply.
"Who said sinners were to be kept out?
Who identified anyone as unworthy? 
I was sent as a shepherd for the lost
and as a doctor for the sick. 
By whose word do you draw lines 
and by whose authority do you exclude?"

And the dour men answered, saying
"Lord we searched your scripture
and we determined these writings
by which we divide men from eternity."

The visage of the Lord darkened,
and he drove them from the carnival
with a scourge formed of strands
of brightly-colored beads.
"Get you from my sight, you vipers!
You have strained my word through
the filter of your own bigotry; 
all that remains is a reflection
of the blackness of your souls."

A little child stepped forward.
"Master, you have driven them away.
Are they now refused entrance?"

"No, child. I refuse no person
who accepts me and what I offer. 
It is they who exclude themselves
by wanting me to be what I am not
and insisting on their interpretation.
If they can accept, they can return.
Now, let's get back to the carnival."

By: Michael Williams / August 17, 2006

Brite White

I do not want white shirts and tams,
as soft as fluffy little lambs;
I do not want to blast away 
a bucket's worth of stains today.
I do not want to, no I don't,
and furthermore I said I won't. 

But mightily though I resisted, 
the television man persisted,
there on my screen he stamped out grime
with his amazing Oxy-Prime;
and by the hundredth time he'd quipped, 
I found that my willpower had slipped. 

So now I have white shirts and tams,
enough to dazzle little lambs. 
I can't deny my shirts are clean,
just as proclaimed right on my screen.
However, and this might sound mean,
the truth is that these clothes were green.

By: Michael Williams / August 22, 2006

The next three were in answer to a challenge to write in the style of Ogden Nash.

The Mockingbird

The clever little mockingbird 
can mimic any sound he's heard. 
If you hear a chainsaw running, 
it could be mockingbird funning.

By: Michael Williams / August 24, 2006

The Chameleon

The skill of the chameleon 
lies in concealment neatly done; 
any background, any color, 
this lizard stays undercover. 

By: Michael Williams / August 24, 2006

The Snow Leopard

The snow leopard, magnificent, 
has fur that's much too elegant 
to be tailored into a coat 
for the sweetie of some old goat.

By: Michael Williams / August 24, 2006

On a Museum Display

Man: believed to have been bipedal,
using the forelimbs for manipulating objects.
Man is considered one of the last 
of the land-dwelling tool-users. 

Evidence is fragmentary, but suggests
that Man's development of tool use
was driven by his violent nature,
as many surviving examples are weapons.

Leading archeologists have suggested
that it was Man's manipulations of nature
that finally led to the Great Inundation, 
the seminal event that allowed the rise

of our sentient aquatic races and culture. 
Others dispute this finding, and point
instead to the Ice Asteroid Impact theory
to explain the extinction of land-dwellers.

By: Michael Williams / August 25, 2006

Cat on the Piano

What imagined tune has lulled the cat, 
what lullaby's reposed in that curled grace?
Some pleasant sonata wafting from the keys, 
pianissimo, echoed from past remembrance.
An ear flicks in her slumber - a misplayed note?

By: Michael Williams / August 25, 2006

This is a humorous take on Pluto's demotion from planetary status.

When Disney Got the Word

Mickey stomped about the place, 
Minnie looked concerned,
Donald had a squawking fit,
and Daisy's temper burned.

What is it has them all upset?
A bunch of scientists voted,
and when the ballots were counted,
Pluto's planet got demoted. 

Pluto's not been out of his house
since he heard the news.
Probably Goofy put it best:
"Why garsh, he's got the blues!"

By: Michael Williams / August 28, 2006

Pain the Teacher

Pain is a great vocabulary builder:
"Baby, no, no no!
Don't touch that, it's hot."

Sssss "OW!"

"Oh, sweetie! Are you all right?
Didn't you hear me tell you no?
I told you it was hot."

And so I learned
the meaning
of the word hot.

By: Michael Williams / August 29, 2006

Interlude

Green tendrils reach for a new hold,
anchoring vines as they worm up
to claim another branch before
summer's climbing season can close.

Honeysuckle's distinct bouquet,
shaded on a whispering breeze,
breathes tranquility as a note
passed between lovers: te amo.

By: Michael Williams / August 30, 2006

I answered a parody challenge with this take-off on William Blake's .

Tiny Tyger

Kitten, kitten walking tall
in the canyons of the hall;
tail erect and eyes so bright
like a ruler of the night.

Did your mother teach you that,
as she fed and made you fat?
Did you learn your saucy ways
from her alley cat yesterdays? 

Did her pleasure and her pain
flow with milk into your brain?
Or do cats have a dialect
we poor humans can't suspect? 

What catly thoughts did mom impart,
what more implanted in your heart?
What heritage drives your soul
as you tumble, pounce and roll? 

And when you grow to be a tom,
fully weaned from loving mom;
she will box your ear one day
to make you go your separate way.

Tomcat, tomcat, walking tall
in the canyons of the hall;
tail erect and eyes so bright
you'll be a ruler of the night.

By: Michael Williams / September 11, 2006

A Different Day at the Beach

I sit back on a beach towel,
broad umbrella driven deep
into the sand for anchor.

A storm is approaching,
the steel-ribbed blue umbrella 
will provide more than shade.

The wind picks up, strengthens,
chasing sand grains about,
creating miniature dunes. 

As the first drops fall,
each detonates a burst of sand
like dust on parched ground.

The umbrella creaks, shudders,
and twists, but holds firm
as the rain beats a drum solo.

Everyone else has left, 
so I'm alone with the rain,
the wind, and the rolling surf.

By: Michael Williams / September 12, 2006

Haiku

Haiku is a poem form, of Japanese origin, consisting of three lines, which often in English writing have a pattern of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, although different syllable counts are recognized as valid Haiku. To be honest, although I tend to refer to them all as Haiku, some of the pieces below do not follow the traditional Japanese concept. Here are some Haiku I have written, beginning with one for the space shuttle Columbia, written after the tragedy. The others have been written at various times since then.

Seven souls take flight,
soar to space, return to sky.
Seven souls took flight.


A jug of grape juice
a basket of fresh bread sticks
and - the best part - you 

 
Green grass and blue sky
Summer's bright flowers bloom full
butterflies dance by


Rocket run up hall
scramble climb scaling doorframe
zip down hall - kitten!


Quiet sleeper curled
unimaginably small
tiny kitten ball


Morning dew all 'round
brush a branch - a shower falls
careful or dampness


Quiet sunset lake
peaceful again at day's end
loon's last eerie call


Jump up, roll, and flop -
suddenly you have a cat
cradled in your arms.


"Very nice photo,
you have a lovely daughter."
"She's my fiancé."


Worry creates naught
save deeper cares and wrinkles - 
you think far too much.


Autumn harvest meal - 
hot potatoes in jackets
bring me out of mine.


The next five are all about rainbows.

Multi-hued arcing
combining rainfall, sunshine - 
never seen enough


Myriad raindrops
prisms for glinting sunlight -
majestic beauty


Bright skypaint colors
encircling perfection - 
thunderstorm's dessert


Neatly ordered hues
every stripe fixed in place - 
each display unique


Octave one note short
harmonies sing to the eyes -
visual music


The next three are on Winter.

silent Winter waits
until gaily-clad Autumn
has its fun and leaves


cold leafless branches
shiver naked in the wind
for a coat of snow


white blanket enfolds -
tucks in slumbering nature
until Spring arrives

By: Michael Williams / 2003

Silence as crystal -
delicate in creation
shards in an instant


Rumbling the darkness
thunder dares timorous dawn
greeting spring's first day


Books - openers of minds
reshapers of destinies
doors to tomorrow


Rose-pink dusted cheeks
bleeding heart-red kisses lips
Queen Anne's Lace your veil


Flower into flour
tulips can sound like two lips
"sounds like" strikes again

By: Michael Williams / 2004

Lilac scented air
fragrance wafting everywhere
Spring's sweet calling card


Sunny summer day -
tiny flowers fluttering
in a beewing breeze


Cat in climbing tree -
you possess most deadly aim
with that tennis ball


daylight wanderer
do not compete with the sun
moon must always lose


chilly wind lifting 
a leaf curls upon itself 
turning bright crimson

By: Michael Williams / 2005

look from my valley -
the mountain fills my senses
and I dream of God 


ladybug looks up
butterfly aloft looks down
ponder each other


moonlit turbulence
whitecaps limned in blue-gray hues
midnight reverie


eyes above surface 
disturb water's glassy calm 
a kick of legs - gone

By: Michael Williams / 2006

This is a descriptive piece on a thunderstorm, written a few years ago. Regarding one element in the description, I can say that I was priviliged once in my life to be able to watch the leading edge of a line of heavy rain advance across a field. Quite an impressive sight...and that drumming rain is even more intense when you experience it inside a house trailer, or mobile home if you prefer. Perhaps surprisingly, although I spent a fair number of my childhood years living in a 12-foot-wide trailer, and knew how vulnerable to storm damage they could be in the wrong circumstances, I have a lasting delight in the sounds of rain, and even thunder. It calms me. Here's the piece:

Thunderstorm

Darkening gray lines the horizon. Growing, massing, it reaches forward across 
the sky. Sunlit trees in the middle distance wear bright halos against the 
gathering darkness. A light breeze strengthens, coaxing branches into a swaying 
dance. 

Half-heard, barely audible, a low rumble teases the edges of conscious 
perception, felt more in the soul than in the ear. Light streaks and plays in 
the approaching dark, lancing groundward with increasing frequency. 

Nearer, nearer, looming overhead, consuming the light, leaden gray stretches in 
unrelieved solidness. A palpable change in the air adds weight to the gathering 
gloom. Rumbling grows into booming, individual crashes merge into a single 
pulsing crescendo. The branch-dance intensifies, frenzied excess competing for 
attention with fireworks in the sky. 

A wall of drops approaches, marching in line abreast across an open field as 
Nature's artillery flashes and shrieks a covering barrage. In perfect assault 
formation, the deluge sweeps forward. The skirmish line strikes first: large, 
splashy drops, but few in number. Reinforcements arrive as more drops fall, 
smaller and striking harder. The thrumming of their impacts increases in speed 
and volume like a manic drum solo, striving to drown out the crashing high 
above. 

Finally, there is comparative silence as the rain passes, marching away. 
Thunder and lightning recede in the distance. Winds fade to a breeze, and the 
branches finally rest from their dance. Tentatively, then in chorus, birdsong 
fills the sonic void as the sky lightens and brightens. Pale blue gently nudges 
aside the weakening gray. The storm is over for another day. 

By: Michael Williams

This is another descriptive piece, written about the same time as the one above. This is sort of a history in miniature of this fiesty little cat.

Then and Now

Tiny teeth in a tiny mouth, tiny claws on tiny paws, a tornado with fur perches 
atop a tire, up in the wheel well, almost out of sight. A tawny coat, flecked 
with black, brown, and orange in a pattern that's almost tabby, has a fuzziness 
that hints of the beautiful longhair she will soon become.

Born wild, still wild, she sees this tire as a fortress to defend to the last. 
Mama, a striking silver tabby, would be proud of such defiance. She's never 
been caught either.

A hand comes up before her. Hiss and strike! Another hand, unseen, grasps the 
nape of her neck. No fair! Little Spitfire is captured at last.

Run ahead seven years.

Sleek satisfaction, curled contentment, half-lidded eyes in a small face watch 
a hand descend to stroke long, mostly tawny fur. Her purr burrs noisily.

Never very large, she reflects her nickname of Little Plush Toy. Gone is the 
hissing defiance and the wildness...well, almost.

Her head snaps up. Her ears spring to attention. Her eyes dart, taking in the 
room. A flying leap from her perch, and she is a blurred streak down the hall. 
Up the bathroom doorframe she scoots, climbing it just as she would a tree. Her 
cry has a note of triumph. Just for the moment, Little Spitfire has returned.

By: Michael Williams

I wrote the original draft of this short story about a year ago, for a friend who'd lost a cat she'd had for many years. The idea behind it is an old tradition in folk stories that Satan cannot deceive animals, because they see him for what he is. With that in mind, this story is based on the idea that Satan could not/would not allow animals to enter or be taken into Hell. This story is not completely original with me, but is based on a short anecdote which has been circulating on the web for several years, author unknown. I rewrote and expanded the story to suit the situation. This particular version, at least, is original with me.

Let me say right here that this story is not intended to endorse or challenge any particular view of Heaven or Hell. However, I do believe that, were Satan allowed to tempt us one last time on our way to Heaven, he would certainly put up the most attractive lie he could imagine. Personally - and this probably speaks volumes about my upbringing - if I had the choice between a Heaven of mighty mansions and gold-paved streets or a Heaven of a small home in a country setting, there is no doubt in my mind which I would choose. I wouldn't have to think about it at all. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I love you.

The Road

A woman was walking along an old dirt road. The day was sunny and pleasant, and across split rail fences were grassy fields on one side and a woods on the other. The trees overhung the road, filtering much of the sunlight, making the walk a pleasure. The woman didn't remember how long she had been walking or how she had come to be there in the first place, but didn't worry about it.

After a while, it came to the woman that she had died. She remembered the event, but it still didn't worry her. After a short time more, she noticed a couple of her favorite cats were walking with her. She realized that they had been walking with her all along. As she knelt to pet them, the woman recalled that they, too, had died: one recently, one many years before. For some reason, this didn't seem odd to her, either.

As the woman walked on, she noticed a structure ahead on the road. She approached it and saw that it was a tall glowing wall, with massive gates that shone like pearl. At a desk sat a figure in white robes with wings sprouting from his shoulders. He smiled at the woman and said, "Hello, welcome, come on in."

"What is this place?" asked the woman.

"This is Heaven." The figure motioned to the gates, which swung open to reveal streets paved with pure, gleaming gold and lined with what could only be described as mansions, standing tall and impressive.

The woman scooped up the two cats and started forward.

"I'm sorry," said the figure, stepping in front of her, "we cannot allow pets to come in. This is not their place."

The woman was first surprised, then shocked, angered, and finally saddened. "I'm sorry, too," she replied, "but if they can't go in, then neither can I." The figure’s only answer was a shrug of the shoulders.

The road continued to the right, and she walked on, leaving the figure to return to his desk once more.

Some distance further on, she came to another gate. This one was a simple wooden structure, made of the same rails as the fence. A lone figure was there, too. He was a plain-looking man, who was busy tending some flowers and didn't seem to take much notice of her. The woman realized that she was thirsty, and approached him.

"Do you have any water?"

"Sure, right through that gate, and behind that shed, you'll find a pump. There's a bucket and a ladle there, just draw yourself some water and have all you want."

The woman passed through the gate, and found the pump, just as the man had said. She pumped until the bucket filled with water, and drank until her thirst was satisfied. The cats had followed her, and she noticed some bowls on the ground nearby. She took the ladle and poured water into two of them, watching as the cats drank. She remembered that the man had watched as the cats followed her in, and had said nothing. He had only smiled. The woman smiled, too, remembering his kindly expression.

Returning to the gate, and finding him still there, she asked, "What is this place?"

"This is Heaven, my child." The man smiled at her. "You are finally home. You'll find a place prepared for you, and you will thirst or want no more."

The woman returned his smile, feeling more joy than she could ever remember. Still, she was curious. "What was the other place, which also called itself Heaven? I mean, the guy had wings and wore a white robe and everything"

"That's Hell. He is called the Prince of Liars, you know, and he once was an angel in Heaven before his fall."

"The place certainly looked the part, what with the pearly gates, the mansions, and the streets of gold. Aren't you concerned about them passing themselves off as Heaven?"

"No, not really." The man smiled. "There's always a tip-off that things are not what they seem." He knelt down and stroked the cats. "Such as asking someone to leave their beloved friends behind."

By: Michael Williams / April 2, 2003

Send Me E-Mail.

If you got here from my homepage, just close this page. Otherwise, you can go there by clicking here: Home.