Michael William Poems

Broken drum. Tired horn.
A song for the
tongues of strangers. A cigar
for the soldier’s gun. A drop of
...

And he said
To me
'it's true, you can't go home again,
But if everywhere is your home
...

I sit by the bank of the Nile
And watch the feluccas floating
Up and down on the river. Across the bank
The beige mountains stand in a haze looking strange and thirsty against the
...

Poison arrow night. Street cleaners
stalking through
the streets like runaway trains
with phantom drivers. Run-away
...

The poems I write are too long
for you;
you say you prefer short poems:
...

It is not for the sake of your art
For whic u will suffer
But because of it:
There is agony in revision, the turning of a
...

In the silence there is
No matter
Or consequence. In the silence
There is no wpeaker, no word.
...

not much breathes behind these windows
that pass by me
as i stream along the highway through
an almost total darkness, strange houses
...

The shadow of an owl sits on the ice,
the green trees, their branches
white, the lake covered in footprints.
...

This is the place where small stars
Are thrown from the manes
Of running horses
...