Biography of W.M. Rivera
W. M. Rivera grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans. He graduated from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill in 1955 with a major in French language and literature. He began writing poetry early on and published a book of poems titled “At the End of Legend’s String” (Views Press,1960, Washington, DC.) . For many years he worked for and taught international adult and agricultural development, lastly at the University of Maryland from 1981-2009. Now retired from the University of Maryland, he has returned to writing poems. Rivera currently resides in College Park, MD.
W.M. Rivera's Works:
'Buried in the Mind's Backyard' Brickhouse Books,2011
'The Living Clock' Finishing Line Press,2013
W.M. Rivera Poems
Subtracting One .
After Hurricane Katrina, Words For My Gr...
(Jeannette McLeod Hayes Moser,1899-1965) . -The above ground tombs in New Orleans cemeteries are often referred to as “cities of the dead.”
The Sun Goes Off
behind accumulating clouds this morning; reappears; it seems seduction, then the going under Earth again as if the word ‘indefinite’ describes reality, as if life’s rhythm
Fathers come and go; mine just went it seems long ago; blood and little else between us: the watch unfastened from his wrist in Coyoacán he gave to me when we first met that once…
“Ponder how you might describe the indescribable, ” her email challenged. “No color. No shape. No sequence of being.”
For Sara,2014 Living 'happily ever after' we walk through woods near the local School, breathe in
Opening Blinds In The Dark
Life’s daily gets us up, opening blinds, asking questions, starting the day’s ‘why? ’ me again, stuck in inspiration’s academics.
Magritte And This Morning Bewick's Wren
Magritte stuffs it all in his pipe that's not a pipe,
Fathers come and go; mine just went it seems
long ago; blood and little else between us:
the watch unfastened from his wrist in Coyoacán
he gave to me when we first met that once…
stopped working years ago. i must have tossed it. Things
pop up from time to time, not always evident
the way some things are always there. Verhaeren’s poem