Bill Ward - All - Writing - Poetry

A Three Ring Circus

The washing machine
Spinning smugly
With a very professinal air
Like a clown yawning, nonchalant
As plates spin balanced on sticks on his nose.
They never fall.

The dryer tumbles
Its load, endlessly rotating:
A circus animal who knows his tricks
So well he could do it in his sleep.
With a sigh, another tumble.

Clamoring for attention
The dishwasher sloshes and grunts and whines
The eager monkey
That all the other animals despise
For his cheerfulness.

I glance over at the clock, and sigh.

Unmarked Bills, take Five

I got a letter from the bank today.
It was a ransom note.
They have kidnapped my livelihood.

They could have snipped out words
From newspapers and magazines
Pasting them on pages
With their corporate letterhead.

Or, demanded unmarked bills
In a brown leather briefcase
Left in a phone booth
On Main Street.

But the bank doesn't have to do that.
Their computer just spits out
One threatening note after another,
Demanding tribute

On behalf of my most dreaded,
Mortal enemy --
Myself.

© 2000 William R. Ward
All Rights Reserved
October 7, 2000, 3:45 PM

Grandpa's Basement, take Two

In my grandpa's basement,
An unfinished canoe
Hangs from the rafters.
A skeleton, lacking flesh or skin;
Dust clings to every horizontal surface.
Its tired old wooden ribs
Call to mind a quiet mountain lake
Where the fish are really biting today.

Upstairs, he is tired.
He sits in his easy chair,
Flipping channels
on the TV.

© 2000 William R. Ward
All Rights Reserved.
Monday, June 5 2000, 7:15 PM
Revised Sat, October 7, 2000, 3:20 PM

At Sea, take Two

Whiteness surrounds me in every direction.
Craning my neck, I stand,
Hand on the railing,
Feet spread apart on the deck.
Rising up and sliding down
Atop the heaving grey-blue

I peer into the silent dampness, seeing nothing.
Firmly held by the fog's wispy talons,
I wait.

A gull alights on the gunwale near me
Two beady eyes amid fog-colored feathers
Stare back at me dumbly
Composing itself, it joins my vigil
Its surprisingly yellow beak
Pointing toward nowhere

I feel heat from above.
Looking up, I see the sky opening
Rent asunder by the hot glare,
The clouds part.
The sun soars high above.
Exposed by his searchlight,
The bird, the boat, and I
Are revealed to his countenance.

The wall of grey flies away;
My little universe is shattered.
I can see the land now:
Business as usual on the docks and roads,
Life goes on in the wood-frame houses.

The fog is gone,
The bird lifts off,
It is time to head back to the harbor.

© 2000 William R. Ward
All rights reserved.
Thu, 28 Sep 2000 2:15 PM
Revised Sat, 7 Oct 2000 2:45 PM

At Sea

I stand, craning my neck
Hand on the railing
My feet spread apart
On the deck of the ship
Moving up and down
Slowly
Among the heaving grey-blue

Surrounded by silent dampness
I peer into the depths of grey
Hoping to see something, anything

A gull alights on the railing near me
White and grey, with yellow beak
It stares at me dumbly
Then composes itself to join my vigil

Above, the sky suddenly opens up
Brilliantly the sun shines his spotlight
The bird, the boat, and me
Are revealed to his countenance

The bird flies away
The fog lifts
The harbor beckons.

Copyright (C) 2000 William R. Ward
All rights reserved.
Thu, 28 Sep 2000 2:15 PM

Perfect

I brush my teeth twice a day
(thrice on weekends)
And I never forget to floss
I'm always at the gym
Building up my perfect pecs
And biceps
And triceps
Or whatever they are called
Whenever I speak in public
I never say "um".

Wed, 27 Sep 2000 21:46:54 -0700

Fickle

poetry is a fickle beast
at times it hits you like a flash of hot white light
against a darkened sky
other times an impenetrable opaque mist
obscures the muse.

Wed, 27 Sep 2000 21:46:51 -0700 (PDT)

Howard, take Two

Every thing is in its place
Bags of bolts, boxes of nails,
Rusting wrenches on the wall.
Cut wood awaits, wanting work, its
Blueprint lost to the grave.
Dust gathers on aging tools,
Worn handles match his hands,
Honed to a perfect fit.
Everything is ready
For a final masterpiece,
Too late now to start.

by William Ward
5/15/2000
revised 8/8/2000

Fog, take Two

Adrift in silent fog
Days turn to weeks
Weeks become months
Surrounded by wetness and grey.

When at long last
The fog suddenly lifts,
I find myself lost.
The current has carried me

Far from my home port
And all chance of safety,
I resign myself to fate:
Hope is gone now.

In the harbor, I know
Life goes on:
Fishing boats disgorge
Into waiting trucks,

Sea gulls swoop and squawk.
Dozens of sailboats
Set out to ride the breeze,
As I am
Blown
Slowly, steadily, helplessly
Toward the waiting rocks.

© 2000 William R Ward
All rights reserved.
Written Jul 15, 2000
Revised Aug 8, 2000

Unmarked Bills, take Four

I got a letter from the bank today.
It was a ransom note.
They have kidnapped my livelihood.

They could have snipped letters
From newspapers
And stuck them together
On corporate letterhead.

Or demanded unmarked bills
In a brown leather briefcase
Left in a phone booth
On Main Street.

But the bank doesn't have to do that.
Their computer just spits out
Letter after letter,
Demanding tribute

On behalf of my most dreaded,
Mortal enemy --
Myself.

(C) 2000 William R. Ward
All Rights Reserved
August 8, 2000, 2:15am