Bill Grace Poems

Herb tells me the story
Which I believe is not a tale
Of a journey to the court house
Intercepted by a fellow with a big and drawn knife
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I oft feign sleep till they are gone
It is not I love them less
Than the silence of gray morning
The chime of clock and peep of watch
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King’s Hawaiian bread, Baskin Robins chocolate, bacon properly fried
These contain the memories of youth
Better than the trophies of a spring hunt
Better than a triumph cheer at winning
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If I am fortunate enough to have you
The statistics do not tell me who you are
So we are safe from vanity's or the world's intrusion
Publicly written but in a private spirit
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The author held me with the power of his words
Words that lured to internet images of a trinity of artists:
Wolfgang Willrich
Boleslaw Czedekowski
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When you have burned every ounce of fat that steals your muscles’ oxygen
And disciplined your muscles too
When you have pushed yourself past pain to the strange land of numb
When you have claimed the table as well as the field as your province
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The great sin is in knowing
The young being easy experts at this task
Holy doubt, unknowing and even mystery call
But these are functions of time, age and wisdom.
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The wound is very present
But not bleeding from the post card that informed me
Blood clotting from the day’s business:
Doughnuts purchased for Sunday School
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It is a matter of tensions.
Something real, something beautiful, a touch of hope -
at least enough to turn a page -
but most the strangeness of real
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With the cat nestled in my lap
The fish requires feeding
Memories of this day conclude:
Dishes washed to Flaure`
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