Jill Williams
　

Recycling Station

Old washers. Used heaters. A sink full of taps.
A rubbery mountain of tires.
How quickly one’s dreams can erode into scraps.

How easy it is for the time to elapse,
For boredom to outlive desires.
Old washers. Used heaters. A sink full of taps,

And somebody’s atlas with half-shredded maps
That used to light wanderlust fires.
How quickly one’s dreams can erode into scraps.

A box full of glassware. A bag filled with caps.
A Dean Martin tape at `The Friars’.
Old washers. Used heaters. A sink full of taps.

A three-legged crib where the fleas take their naps.
Great jumbles of cables and wires.
How quickly one’s dreams can erode into scraps.

And change from true love to a memory lapse.
Will time turn us all into liars?
Old washers. Used heaters. A sink-full of taps.
How quickly one’s dreams can erode into scraps.


Spirituality

‘What does it mean to you, my thoughtful friend?”
He hesitates then offers this reply. “
I’d hate to think we’re nada in the end―
That we live once and then we simply die.”

I contemplate his after-life reply.
I have my own beliefs about this theme.
(I do think we just live and then we die.)
I’m into Now, not some amorphous dream.

I have my own beliefs about this theme.
It’s how we live today that gives us worth.
I’m into Now. Not some amorphous dream
Where one repeats new lessons on this earth.

It’s how we live today that gives us worth.
It’s what we do or what we leave undone.
Who cares if I return one day to Earth.
I’m here. It’s noon. I love the feel of sun!

I do not share these views with anyone. “
I’d hate to think we’re nada in the end.”
He shields his eyes from too much noonday sun.
‘What does it mean to you, my thoughtful friend?”


Sharing Food

I will not tolerate a roving fork
That dives like hungry dolphins for my food.
Go on and call me crass or super crude.
But no one spears my sweet and sour pork.
Not even Royal Andrew, Duke of York.
You say I’ve got a lousy attitude?
Well that’s my salad. Get your own plate, dude.
No stolen nibbles here, you greedy dork!
The shrinks might say I’m slightly paranoid.
A basket case whose mama didn’t care.
But I don’t need Carl Jung or Sigmund Freud
To analyze why I will never share.
A meal, like any mate I choose to wed,
Is strictly mine. (Both in and out of bed!)


Suicide Threat

Same old, same old….
Bridge-jumping this time, is it?
I’ll be the lookout, if you like.
Letcha know when there’s no cars.
Then you’re on your own.
Splattered on the deck of a dirty tugboat
like a giant squid.

When I was a child
I threatened to eat worms.
All the other kids were going.
Mary, Paula, Juliette…
What’s so bad about a sleepover?

When I was less of a child
I threatened to drink poison.
Sis barged in, grabbing
the iodine bottle.
Jack hadn’t asked me to the prom.

When I was in college
I threatened hanging
But the paislies wouldn’t hold
and my hands kept shaking.
Another goal shot to hell.

When I was married
I threatened with carbon monoxide.
I wanted him to find me,
to wail and tear his hair.
(What was left of it…)
But the car wouldn’t start.

Today I feel like a starfish
stuck in a seagull’s gullet,
being eaten alive.
When you phoned,
Lions’ Gate Bridge came to mind.
Me, perching delicately on the ledge.
A wingless angel, ready.

Letcha know when there’s no cars.


Highlands Hammock State Park

The swamp is calm, a shallow black,
As shivers quiver down my back.
There’s ‘gators here, both young and old.
A mama with her pod to scold.

If she gets angry, she’ll attack.
The cypress knees seem out of whack,
Like feral dogs without a pack.
Despite this sudden spate of cold,
The swamp is calm.

I hear the egret flap and clack.
He must have speared a mid-day snack.
Its end is silent, swift and bold
I hope my own will thus unfold.
Ride’s over, folks! Stay off the track
The swamp is calm.

-all poems previously published at Real Eight View