All Poems

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flood archeology

© Williams Julia

in ten thousand years a shoewill emerge from bog mudcracked, seamy leatherunlaced and tiny

Not saying

© Williams Ian

Fists in our sleeves, we reach our limit. No waypast Lake Ontario, nothing else to dountil you say the thing you need to say.

Missed connections: Walmart automotive dept—w4m—(Lunenburg MA)

the hero winsbecause that's what heros do when you spendthe money to buy the DVD of a movie you alreadyknow the ending to, not because you’ve seen it beforebut because you heard from a colleague in HRthat it would make you feel real good after,it was the best thing she’s seen lately, and that’swith her being married and every morning pushing spoonsinto the faces of her two children

so you watch itknowing the only thing that will make you feel goodthis evening is seeing a bare-chested man wail on anotherin a ring and another in a street and another in a ringin slow-mo and the dff dff sounds of the gloves strikingbodies in movies, which don’t sound like bodies for real,not that you’d admit to knowing that,

and the herodoesn’t even look like heroes in the real worldwhich are not the heroes in grade four essays eitherbut like (stay with me) this one time you dropped by a woman’s placeand you were sitting at her kitchen table and she asked youif you wanted anything to drink and she opened the fridgeand you saw through the crack between her bodyand the door only a pitcher of water on the wire shelfin the yellow light—

you want to call her a herobecause she’s surviving with her mouth shutor yourself because you’re so affected must meanyou’re noble

Love and Fame and Death

© Charles Bukowski

the way to end a poem
like this
is to become suddenly
quiet.

He will tell me later the story of the woman he has been alluding to all day

© Williams Ian

because it takes three hours and gives him the blues badso not now, not now, later, he promises, then falls asleepon my couch, shrugging his upper lip like a horse

Solitude

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own

The Little White Hearse

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Somebody's baby was buried to-day -- The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,And a shadow seemed drawn o'er the sun's golden track

Will and Testament

© Isabella Whitney

The Aucthour (though loth to leave the Citie)vpon her Friendes procurement, is constrainedto departe: wherfore (she fayneth as she would die)and maketh her WYLL and Testæment, as foloweth:With large Legacies of such Goods and richeswhich she moste aboundantly hath left behind her:and therof maketh LONDON sole executor to seher Legacies performed

To her Sister Mistress A. B.

© Isabella Whitney

Because I to my brethern wrote and to my sisters two:Good sister Anne, you this might wote, if so I should not doTo you, or ere I parted hence,You vainly had bestowed expence.