William B. Watterson
William B. Watterson Poems
|2.||To A Sad Lady||12/9/2009|
|9.||Four Haiku For Spring||12/13/2009|
|18.||In Memory Of John Mcneely||1/31/2010|
|19.||Of Time And The River||8/18/2014|
|20.||A Villanelle For Wives||3/29/2012|
|23.||On Being Married 50 Years||4/29/2012|
|24.||Venus De Milo||12/13/2009|
|28.||Cogito Ergo Sum||4/19/2012|
Comments about William B. Watterson
up the steps
of a rustic beach cottage,
she could still hear
his dune buggy
down the strand.
In the privacy
of her bedroom,
she peeled off her bikini,
folded it neatly,
and carefully laid it
in a dresser drawer.
It would do
to wear again tomorrow.
After all, it,
like her virginity,
was only slightly soiled.
Above a red clay bank an old shack stands
Where J. T. lived and took his simple fare,
Never complaining once because his bare
Existence offered nothing that was grand.
He seldom shaved, he ate with unwashed hands,
And if his lunch was beans, he did not care.
His skill for tying fishing lines was rare,
He far surpassed all hunters in the land.
What matter if his speech was slightly rough,