Bill Grace Poems

The beach births relics
Happy flesh walks by
They signal the end of our stay
The waves sing their shore meeting chorus
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If it is true that Harvard/Andover will welcome my papers
I repent of any more poems being written upon cheap paper
Suspect Mother, though dead, must be rejoicing that at last I am in
This venerable institution (Harvard) which she said
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The newspaper is clever:
'Who will be the top beagle? '
Is the front page question
The photograph of beagles in competitive queue accompanies.
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Sometimes not enough is said
About a miracle known as bread
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At 1,000 I will stop and trim the tree
So that the world will have a little less bad poetry
For each one ahead a check on one behind
Nice to keep the ones that touch a piece of things sublime
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I always seem to live on the edge of a poem
It doesn't seem to matter where I roam
Or time of day or money or its lack
Frost, Dickinson, Shakespeare, Donne -
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With the puppy coming into the house
The uneasy sphere of influence peace
Of the two cats ended.
With "Squirt" at my head
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When Mother Theresa was asked to join an anti-war protest
She declined she said 'I am not against things I am for things.'
We learn the word hubris early in our careers.
We are against this pride that has destroyed so much.
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After the buy the pressure goes down,
Hands do not tremble
The virgin has been sacrificed
Bread consecrated.
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I'm a goof off poet.
The world can barely understand
For it does not make too many demands.
Unlike that pretty blonde in Swarthmore so long ago
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