ERNEST WILLIAMSON III

Taken by Hand, Heart, and Storm

beneath the bed
between the sheets
in the camera hidden by the gray mirage of wedding pictures
there
in the cavern of woven leather
resting
on the light brown
wooden
floors
I reside in your supple hand
on your inveterate moments
as you remember
our fights
which were so important and silly
as the limelight of fame seeps
like acid into our bones
we're artists
all of us who decry with the slates of stone
burning
beyond the worldly noose
constricting
phony smiles
but never mind
anything I say
just make me
listen
as I am trying to
listen
to all of what makes you
strange
like bad news
godly
like mystery
disgusting
like beauty
yet necessary and
essential
don't do that
that thing you do is so painfully grand
especially when the sun
is laughing at me
and my pitiful make
a man
taken
by heart
hand
and
storm

A Momentary Free Verse

free
later in a daze
I grab
millions
of floating tears
from the sky
watching them splatter
on my hands
like arthritics
pains
like algorithms with sharp
peaks
across a dainty street
in late October
when daze is manifest
throughout the coming
holidays
but out of a stupor
comes lines of lead
business
stress
alacrity
of various mobilities
running without poetry
without
the transcended
whiffs
muttering
Lennon's
Imagine
so now I'm 75
and autumn is upon me
and drones of men and women
are at it again
bustling to make deadlines
to tend to reality
but for me
like an ambitious homeless man
smoking a cigar
in the apathetic rain
for the sake of escape
is all of what is
everything
in a word
verse

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