Michael J Williams Poems

If I could only finish what I started
I'd let the fates portend my end
If only my deeds would not be thwarted
My soul would ably, no doubt, ascend
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I have never been one to over-praise or tell you how wonderful you are… but know that I could not have loved you more or been prouder of all of you. I would like you to know that on the rare occasions that I did bestow praise on you, I really meant it, and I'd like to think that it meant something to you also… and motivated you to be the people you are now, and who you will become. I realize that your accomplishments are mostly ‘all You', and your wonderful mother had a more positive influence on you than I did.

The way I was raised is the way I raised you. I know your mother did most of the nurturing and
rearing. I was there to put the ‘fear of God' into you should you misbehave. The way both your mother and I were raised represents a different time and place, so I guess maybe I was a little behind the times with my methods of discipline, even though I don't think it did you any harm. In fact, I believe it instilled the rewards of diligent work habits, honesty, and doing things for the right reasons. I would like you all to know that it's been an honor and a privilege to have been a part of your lives.
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The excitement of a bookshop full of volumes he's never read
Causes the bibliophile to lose his bookish head
He anticipates the possibilities of getting lost, with mirth,
In some rare and undiscovered tome… for a fraction of its worth!
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They shouldn't do it for the money
They shouldn't do it for the fame
They should do it ‘cause it needs doing
If not… no one's left to blame
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They lived among the native population,
a people who naively helped them to survive.
This innocent assistance … destroyed a native culture
and caused a native way of life… to come to its demise.
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Each spring morn I hear little songbirds sweetly
urging the sleepy sun to wake up and warm them
and provide light so they can find material
to build their nests, lay eggs, and get on with their lives
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My poems are like little planets
that never seem to have enough gravity
to attract any more mass than they acquired
in the initial burst of inspiration at their creation
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Am I to be my brother's keeper?
What's his worth, that I should compromise?
Why am I tasked, to be his servant?
Why must I bow before my brother… if it causes my demise?
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I never heard of Ozymandias
until I read Percy's poem

I never met my father's dad
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My first encounter with my genealogy
I could scarce conceive the things my family endured
Questions to my father were abundant
Alas, he had few answers
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