Bill Munn Biography

Yellow-bright, sun draws leaved patterns on canvas,
ending dreams of creels full of shining speckled beauties,
Woodsmoke, smelling of boiled coffee, drifts in ethereal patterns
telling me that Paul has begun our breakfast.
...

Novels and plays lie moribund in drawers.
Poems we need not mention.
All forgotten in the heap
of cinema and websites and sound bites
...

I do not have the words.
I need a language to make executives and politicians
feel the pain of lives destroyed, the tragedy of the dead
and maimed, the hopelessness of children
...

Warm summer kisses
seasoned with sand and
the taste of the sea.
The feathery touch of your hair
...

The glow of the city
blots out the night-time sky.
It keeps me from counting stars
or from seeing the twinkle in the eyes of God,
...