Biography of William Graham
William Graham holds a BA and MA in English and a MS in Communications from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. He is the author of eight poetry volumes: 'Vox Publica'; 'Terra Incognita'; 'The Places You Can Go: Poems for Children'; 'Amoricon and Other Poems'; 'Smugglers’ Notch: New England Poems'; 'The Sweetest Swing: Baseball Poems'; 'Interlude'; and 'Work: Labor Poems.' Four novels for children: 'Danny Boyle and the Underland'; 'Danny Boyle and the Ghosts of Ireland'; 'The Boy with the Golden Arm'; and 'Volcano Island'. Two novels for adults: the murder mystery 'Fire and Ice' and the political thriller 'Newfoundland Sagas'. All of his books are available on the Amazon website (www.amazon.con) .
William Graham's Works:
All works available on Amazon.com
Vox Publica: Poetical Works
Terra Incognita: Poetical Works
The Places You Can Go: Poems for Children
Amoricon and Other Poems
Smugglers’ Notch: New England Poems
The Sweetest Swing: Baseball Poems.
Interlude: Poetical Works
Work: Labor Poems
Danny Boyle and the Underland
Danny Boyle and the Ghosts of Ireland
The Boy with the Golden Arm
Fire and Ice
William Graham Poems
The Cowboy Patrician
He veered out of Texas by way of Yale With a message both dangerous and stale. He sought to lead the national government; He had no clue of what governing meant.
Discard Your Swaddling Clothes
The state swaddles dissenters in Old Glory, Hoping for silent submission and docility. If we squeal a contrary thought, We are labeled an unpatriotic lot.
One From Many
As you slumber in warm sheets on a cold winter morning, He tosses newspapers from his ten-year-old car. His skin—tanned from the steamy Mexican sun— Is assaulted by the whipping cold. Up and down
Look at me! I have been hollowed Out like a pumpkin sitting on a porch At Halloween. The seeds of ambition Have been scooped away and discarded.
Portrait Of Love #2
Will I weep when you are gone? I am not a man for tears. Will people think I am cold Or nobly stoic as the mourners
Portrait Of Love #1
Dusk has dropped to its knees; I see the last sparks of the sun in your eyes. We watch the sharp stars slide
Please pass me a sharp knife So I can end this holiday conversation With a surgical slice to my wrist.
When the phone rings, do not fear; It will be the rich man who calls. It will not be my voice you hear.
Amidst the times that should be full of mirth, When sparkling rays of sun sweeten the earth, Evil intrudes to blacken the bright sky. A child dies and morality is defied.
He soared like a hawk over Central Park. He glided gracefully into his Hamptons home. At a whim he would on a weekend embark To beach in the south of France, where he roamed
She had a maple forest smell. She was a celebrant of light. In her polished eyes did dwell An appetite for delight.
Arctic moon—you rise like a cold memory From the bleak black boiling sea. Arctic moon—your yellow light dances
In my twelfth year, my declaration of independence Came as I sunk into a worn red leather chair Under the spinning fan in a public library On a blistering Midwest summer day.
In the misty mornings, When the birds’ sweet calls ring, I am filled with primordial dread That the past is never dead.
He soared like a hawk over Central Park.
He glided gracefully into his Hamptons home.
At a whim he would on a weekend embark
To beach in the south of France, where he roamed
Like a lion—comfortable in his coiled power.
Out of men he pulled money; off women—clothes.
He was their second, their minute, their hour.
He was their poetry and their prose.