Bill Grace Poems

I admire the poet assassins with their perfect technique
find their destructiveness more than a little bleak
realizing only a few poets will write so well to be remembered.
For me it is a grace that any poet soul would ever try to tell
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The problem with a society
where steel sharpens iron
are the sparks
for those not wearing
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Henry Kissinger at 96
writes in The Wall Street Journal
we must use our present plague,
to learn from,
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Eagle is power!
Sparrow,
who cares?
We are almost all sparrows.
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Fatigue, deep pain in her voice
Negotiation of the details
The death, cost of services,
acknowledgement of griefs
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There sleeps beneath our plastic roof
A frail piece of Russian soil
Enough of who I am for me to know no other.
She sleeps and I turn from diversion
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Rainer Maria Rilke gives good advice:
'... go into the depths in which your life takes rise
there you will find the answer to the question if you MUST create.'
You have received bad counsel
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This man unknown to my hand,
'seditious... fakir' to Churchill, haunts me.
Owning nothing he seems to own my soul,
Not even from the solemnity of grave but a flowing river
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I try to give the world a little something
every day that I am here.
How sad it is I fail to speak
great or even small truths.
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