Williamson Poems | Examples

Return to abandon again

"Some things need to be let go before other things can be let in". 
                                                          ~ Marianne Williamson

Come back into my life again
If it’s but to abandon yet again,
come back for a moment brief
Oh, even if it’s to give me grief.

With impish look in your eyes
you escaped like a lover’s sighs
forsaking me like a haunted isle
I am dismayed by your cruel wile.

It’s been a long while and I forgot
did we love each other or hurt a lot?
Seeing you might refresh the pain
come, if it’s to find my faults again.

Let’s relive the lovely days of yore,
give our love a chance once more,
Oh, I’ve been missing you of late
roaming about in a confused state.

Even if it’s to break my heart— come
and do spend time with me some,
Then turn your back and walk away,
even if you’ve to forever go away.

LIGHT AND DARKNESS

It’s wonderful when you have a thought in your head
that you’re all set to put into a poem or a letter…
and then you happen upon a person, 
like Marianne Williamson…who has already said it better:

Light is to darkness
What love is to fear;
In the presence of one
The other disappears…

Sonny

Horn man, 
Blues man, 
Play and sing as soon as you can

My soul's been trying 
And my lil' heart's been crying
My woman's been lying
And my nosey neighbors been prying

Horn man, 
Blues man, 
Play and sing as soon as you can

My pockets ain't got no money
And my love ain't got no honey
My eyes and nose real runny
It's been cloudy, real cloudy so HELP ME, please
play for me, Sonny

Virus Vacinne

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The Greatest Harp

My pen is like a blues riff,
not always on the note

I bend within the moment,
new feelings reach for hope

A eulogy remastered,
the fire that he fed

The Mojo dancing with the Muse,
Marine Band his to wed

My words to stretch and vibrate,
a blind man theirs to read

They move in tribute off the page,
Sonny’s orphaned reeds

My hand they cease to follow,
as letters wail and slide

While deep in South Chicago
—the greatest harp just died

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
‘Tribute To Sonny Boy Williamson 1’

Love Letter From the Soul Xliv

Hero,


“Love is a hero’s journey, and the hero’s journey is a noble but difficult path.”    — Marianne Williamson


winter wears and wanders in
shaking and frigid
each step taken 
ached, iced and frozen 

there's a crackling under foot
hearts turn to run
into the black forest of empty
where soot has made her home

but I turn towards yours
holding summer heat
breaking away the pack
feigning
circle squeezing hacks

dining in your fire, your spirit
your warmth and sunshine silhouette

south, south they say
but I will stay and I will wait
under the tree of Avalon

snow sparkles in the dawn
air lingers in my breath
I feel desire in the whispers
all telling
it's telling

take the world in our hands 
only then we shall run

The Dragon

The dragon ??

He walks the lonely road tonight and he looked to demon dark skyes his family knows that he won't be coming home on this wet dreary night.

He took his last breath on that fateful Friday night, he chased his dream dragon even known it may take his life.

They say he was a good man that he did no wrong he just lost his way and felt like he never had a home.

But all the while he was dreaming of living simple lifes, he kept on chasing dragons till that dragon took his life.

Laura Williamson 
20/05/2018

No Restaurant Near Or Around

The Sea Notes Choral Society has three
free concerts each year. Schedule is as
following:

http://www.sea-notes.com/concert-schedule-2/

No Restaurant Near or Around

Do you want to hear something sad?
You find making you fighting mad
No wonder area does lack any appeal
Can't find a restaurant to find a meal.

Will go to Williamson for a concert
Here's catch and what makes me hurt
No one gives a darn or could care
No restaurant is nearby or anywhere.

Only things considered as being near
Are Subway's a few miles from here
This whole thing sure is such a shame
Who is at fault and should we blame.

Maybe if people are in a mass hysteria
Could go to hospital or college cafeteria
That are never, ever open on a weekend
So to who else should this poem I send.

James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC

The Message

What an occasion – a Washington inauguration,
A second one of the first US President,
Of color. The occasion more than merely exciting,
        Memorial,
	Historic,
	Groundbreaking!

A Chi-Town girl of color,
A participant, an honoree:
She was –
       Young,
       Gifted, and
       Black.
She went home, to be heard from never again,
Gunned down,
Like stalked prey.
In the street.
The reaction?  We shook our heads:
“What a shame”.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A Chi-Town man,
[Three] decades long,
	Taught,
	Encouraged,
	Molded,
	Hugged,
	Excited,
Dozens of Chi-Town’s kids,
His/Their work, discipline, talent,
Exposed nationally,
Their Angelic voices,
	Exciting, 
        Memorable,
	Premiered.

Chi-Town, merely days afterward,
Again,
Enveloped violently; massively.

The message?  Evil speaks.
“You can have your pretty talented little back girls”,
“You can have your decades long workers”, . . . but,
I got this!!!
The message?  For evil to flourish, all it takes,
Is for many good Men/(Wo)men to do,
Nothing.     	     					            Alfreda Williamson, ©9/20/2013

Parent, Prophet

PARENT, PROPHET
©By AlFreda Williamson, 2/18/04


Parent, Prophet.

You don’t know?
You don’t think so?

Think again,
My friend.

A little girl, in shorts of blue,
Heard you talk; yes she heard you.

In a little halter of white,
Heard you say, “girls are alright”,

	But, give you boys.

She heard a noise.

What did you think?
Did you hear her heart,

	Sink.

And the sunlight, bright,
Is still the present light,
After many years of days and night,

Still shine on that day,
When parent, prophet,
Had to say,
That she was merely, okay,

Merely,
Okay,
Today.

As you,
Prophet,
Parent,
Had your say. . .

Mid-Night

MID NIGHT
©by Alfreda Williamson, January 1, 2004

Mid night;
the middle;
the center;
halfway through.

the night,
and the day.

Isn’t it funny?
The new day begins at mid night,
	the middle of the night,
	in the midst of the night.

The new day begins at dark,
	in the dark.	
A new day, begins . . .
	in darkness,

A new beginning starts
	in  darkness,
	when we cannot see it,
	when we might not imagine it,
Cloaked in the darkness.

The light of day,	
begins,
 . . . in the dark of night.

The dawn of tomorrow’s day,
	starts,
in the mid night.
of,
	the darkness,
of yesterday’s day.

Times Catching

TIME CATCHING
©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
	blustery, blowing,
	as cold as
Winter’s first blast.

Until . . .
	as hot as, blazing,
	relentless,
Summer’s sun.

Then . . . 
	as I stood in,
	the midst of the seasons.
	I felt it,
	ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
	a brushing against my cheek,
	a landing on my bare feet,
	that I almost could not feel.
Just,
	one, tiny,
	yellow leaf,
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
	frantically, decidedly,
	swirling speedily to the ground,
	as if heralding,
Autumn.
____________________
	
TIME, 	catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . . 
	time’s flying,
	compressing,
Winding up.

Rage

Riding a scotch high
down
a twisting
river road past
midnight,
his grip tightens
on the steering wheel
in sync 
with the pressure of his foot
on the accelerator.
He convinces himself
he is chasing
meaning
in a meaningless time,
waiting perhaps 
around the next curve
or the next
in the tree with his name on it.

Silence shatters
in the mirror
above the dashboard:
the familiar face glares at him,
screams 
the ugly sound of rage.
He trembles,
sees himself in the agony
of his limits.
He listens to what he sees;
he hears madness.
He breaks the glass,
disappears in the cry.

In the headlights,
purple eyes
devour the mist.
Gods of another age,
another plane,
guide him,
automatic cruise,
into the empty night
beyond 
the threat of the winding river.



© Gene Williamson, 2009

Spring Haiku

after the spring rain
cherry tree filled with blossoms
and birdsong


                                                                           
©gene williamson 2009

Me and Ginger

Thunder off the ocean blurs my vision.
I think I see among the white caps
a school of mermaids trailing a mackerel boat
into shore. A gull and I turn to watch
a fisherman reel in the tide before the storm lands.
I taste the brine as wave on wave jumps the jetty.

At the moment the dark clouds collide,
I race the rain to the shelter of a dance pavilion.
A couple who resemble Fred and Ginger
are dancing the carioca to ragtime. As I approach
I see that Ginger is a redwood coat rack
and Fred is a blue cape hanging on the rack.

I slip into the cape and do a little jig across the ceiling
to a catchy Cole Porter tune I can’t quite identify.
From early night a whistle beckons me
and I glide on my magic cape through an open window 
to the deck of an ocean liner.  
Ginger waits.

Prompted by moonlight, I don my top hat and tails, 
twirl my cane,
wrap Ginger in my arms, 
 
and to a lively Hollywood music track we 

two-step, 
foxtrot, 
tango
tap dance
and gambol 
down 
to Rio. 



© gene Williamson 2008

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