Bill Grace Poems

Haunted by three men I’ve never met
Jesus so famous yet to some more like a set
Thomas Moore lost his head to a King
Compared to his soul to him it was just a thing
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If it is true Harvard will welcome my papers
I repent of any more poems being written upon cheap paper
Suspect Mother must be rejoicing that at last I am in
Despite the small matter of death’s admission
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The terrible thing about being addressed as 'Colonel'
Or any other thing of hierarchy
Is that about the number 1,000
You start to believe it.
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Cold outside
Hidden in a warm house
Quiet
Flannel pajamas with which to greet shiver sheets
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It is just one of the complexities of our age
That you always have to count your change.
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You said to me: You write about everything
But you have never written a poem for me.
If I am defensive it will not help us
There is no joy in wounding the woman with whom you sleep
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I knew him first in pewter and porcelain and plastic
Before I knew him
It was an “Acts” retreat strangely enough
Not the future bishop who was a colleague,
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If the world gives you a pillow - Beware!
If a pillow is built for you be humble
The devil has laid a snare to catch you
If your pride escapes
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I hope that by some grace you will forgive the dark swirling clouds of my soul,
I hope you will forgive past times that I have hurt you,
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Braved against sun’s denied light
Solstice celebrations come to sight
Herald of that which is so deep within
Transcending a history of darkest sin
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