Bill Grace Poems

I encourage all I meet
who tell me of their poems
that if they want to publish
in that terrible ring called poetry
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T-day paper,
Little color bits fuel
A hunger never filled
Something precious dies.
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Dear Poet Laureate when you quietly state:
'Poetry's purpose is to reach other people and to touch their hearts.'
You give good market guidance but
Rilke has also told us that we 'must go into the depths in
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My daughter's taught me
A lot about humanity,
This mortal coil that holds us all,
Her small hand that touches mine
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It is nice to watch them
Much as one might observe
Deer feeding undisturbed.
Just the every day significance of little things
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The world must have the right to vote
A reader's exclamation taught me this with his note
So vote as default I will now allow
Or change back to correct the error of my ways.
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At 'Sans Souci' I witnessed
A fresh rose upon Frederick's grave
That made tremendous impression
It seeming not to be an act of official care,
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Four years from death plus a little
I miss our frequent chats
And counsel so wise and full of gift
That death has broken the seal
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My life consists of things mundane
As that which holds the more:
Evening's obligatory walk of dog
Cat laying siege for treat
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The neighbor's lawn's whirligig's
caught the lamplight's reflection
and I thought I saw for a half minute past hallucination
the gleam of two eyes
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