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Best Poems Written by Gene Williamson

Below are the all-time best Gene Williamson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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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

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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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The Raindrop

In the misty calm after the storm,
inside the perfect raindrop dripping
from the index finger of a lofty blue babe,
one of Shakespeare's young and rose-lipp'd cherubim
doing a balancing act on the temple facade,

there stands Marie, lady of exquisite beauty,
her face framed in fiery auburn hair,
her emerald eyes as brilliant as the nearest star,
her full lips a seductive invitation
to the tall knight dismounting his silver steed.

Sir Will plucks a golden snapdragon from her hair,
takes her in his arms and places her on a bed
of shamrocks.  They tremble as their lips meet
under the watchful cherub hovering above.

Their liquid world, except in moments
of gentle updraft, is, like the moon, a captive
of the earth's pull. Marie and her gallant Will cling
to each other in a lifelong embrace, each
aware only of the other's warmth...

until the droplet touches earth and evaporates
in a pool of blinding light.

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Spring Haiku

after the spring rain
cherry tree filled with blossoms
and birdsong


                                                                           
©gene williamson 2009

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Night's Edge

Wrapped in the poetry,
the rise, the wane, the ache
of unrestrained love,

they ascend on the wings of words
in concert with the cosmos

until time reclaims the moon,

and tides are stilled,
and gulls are gone,
and tall yellowed grass bends under silent winds,
and towering pines weep,
and the ocean speaks in a muted bell,

and a thread of light from the sole surviving star
invades their dusty dream,
and restless shadows rekindle ashen desires
in a prolonged cosmic heartbeat…

and time sings off-key.

Details | Gene Williamson Poem

Pink Lady

beneath pink
lace

the healthy scent
of pink perfume

in gentle slopes and
warm valleys

tender lingering touch
explores

the silken down
sheltering

pink mysterious
depths

of intoxicating
nectar

at life’s lubricious
center

beneath pink
lace

Details | Gene Williamson Poem

Phantom Lovers

I see myself 
standing there, 
invisible in the crowd, 
speaking in silence
to all the vacant faces. 

She walks by, 
touching me unknowingly. 
Naked nerves 
drive me to a quiet chamber 
in the attic of my mind,
her haunting image
imprisoned there,
glow of the hearth 
beckoning.

I slip through 
restless veils that dance 
to ancient rhythms, 
bind me in the pleasures
of this moment.
Purple flames skip 
across the smoldering log.

We are shadows on the wall.