Bill Grace Poems

Watching the absolute efficiency of her moves
I realized that Jacques Ellul is correct
That we live in the age of technique
My hunch being that our cultures
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Wendy was beautfiul and disturbed
A beauty the photographs could only barely capture
Wife's sister barlely known is dead.
It is not her release from pain that unsettles me,
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I tend my poems as garden
The misspelled word thrown out as weed
An “a” or “the” examined for its impact and allowed to stay
Perhaps even a whole poem tilled over after sober reflection
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The insight from the old school house
Was greater than its simple room
Before the time men walked on the moon
And assorted means and mechanisms
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Running through the impressionist landscape exhibit
Darth Vader was caught from the corner of my eye
I did not stop to obviously spy
Or nicely comment to him on his cape’s superior quality
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When the first poem came
My English teacher shrugged
No Sylvia Plath here, attracting
Instant notice of some immense talent.
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Power, pleasure and fame are three Gods best avoided
Power for leading only to its own corruption
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Given the metal detectors, long and rushed lines,
unfamiliar surroundings, and general intimidation
of a big city court house for a country boy,
I count my blesings that the casualties were only three:
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The next door girl given to jeans and her art work
Is worth watching and investing an appropriate wave,
But I could not help but chuckle - after her graduation -
Seeing her transformed into interview
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