Home » Poems » Best » Paul Willason » Best Paul Willason Poems

Best Poems Written by Paul Willason

Below are the all-time best Paul Willason poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Paul Willason Poem

All That I Have Taken In

At day's end, I take in the last light
seeping into the dark waters
across the bay and keep it here.
I gather the sound of departing gulls
smudged on the sky, the quietening
settle of birds in the cypress trees 
along the foreshore, the giggle 
of a child high on a swing
being pushed by a mothers hand. 

I hold here the gentle sweep
of waves soaking into wet sand,
the slow roll of seaweed, bubbles
bursting around shells, wings
low over the water.
I draw in the evening and keep
it close with its lights 
sprinkled around the edges 
of the headland, 
emerging stars hung soundless
in the heavens, the blinking 
passage of a southbound airplane 
heading into a long night.
From somewhere, the smell
of honeysuckle spilling 
into the waiting air.

I make my way home, filled
with all that I have taken in,
almost happy having little space
left over to fit myself.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

The Labrador

If I wasn't there,
the rain swollen clouds
would have still dumped 
their dark weight over the bay
and through a gaping tear,
let down a curtain of sunlight
to start the day.

And if I wasn't there,
the old, arthritic labrador 
would have still waddled
along the street
with its bent but steady gait,
undistracted, self absorbed 
and fixed in its own stare
that allowed no deviation 
from years of devoted plod.

The morning had no need
for me, what happened
would have happened anyway.
There's an annoying sadness
in knowing the earth 
doesn't seem to care
if things pass unnoticed.
Sunsets and waterfalls
carry no favor. 
To it, the achingly beautiful 
and the catastrophic can
happily go unreported.

And yet I still ask -
what's the point -
and entertain the notion
that the universe has this
innate and unfathomable need
for a witness
to take in Creations 
unfolding riddle
and make it fit together.

I could be wrong,
but for each of us, 
the privilege of being here
on this gifted earth,
to understand, care for 
and tell its story in song
fulfills a purpose,
if only to this end -
or something more.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

To Have Space

Sometimes you have to let
the morning have its way,
set out its wide sunlit spaces
like a tablecloth upon your silence,
speak to you softly in the sound
of leaves, bright with the flush 
of spring. There is much to tell,
the stories of its winter dreaming,
waking to a warming sun, 
desires erupting in flower
and fruit.

As a child I listened 
to the almond trees clack 
their naked limbs all winter long
until late august when the first 
blossoms broke into the chilly air 
with their white whispers
and perfumed breath hushed out 
of pink throats. It was my eucharist,
trees donning their green vestments
plump with promises.

I must make space in myself
to receive the sacraments of creation,
have a reverence for what comes
forth to speak a name
in all that is born, lives and dies
and reflects a beauty 
to which I can be blind to
in the bloat of myself.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

Murmurs

I gather in the scarred 
and broken forms,
the lipped imperfections
that score the wind
to give voice to an evening. 
I see through the lesions
that open to a stillness
into which the universe
whispers its unfolding.

I feel the awe,
the sheer enormity 
that confronts the senses 
as all that is 
opens into endlessness, 
the mind wilting 
at its door,
leaving only these hands 
to shape offerings which,
like shells held to an ear,
echo only the faint murmurs 
of what cannot
be contained.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

Emily Dickinson

Crowned poet,
posthumous Queen 
of the private world, 
you explored
every subtlety of the soul
and mapped the wonder
of existence 
to its last drawn breath.

What price did you pay
deep in your alabaster chambers,
charting the course 
of a nameless presence 
stretched across eternity, 
giving it a home 
in the exquisite vessel 
of your words.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

I No Longer Feel I Belong

That other world
is out there, beyond the quiet
I keep bubbled around me,
the noise growing louder along
the flag strewn streets,
banging drums marshaling
the inflamed minds of the masses.
Something has gone wrong.
I no longer feel I belong.

I keep my door closed
and curtains drawn to shut out
the anger from a passing mob,
reinforce the boundaries of my home
with walls of books. They have
marched through and littered
all the lovely places 
where I once walked, covered 
beauty with garish signs.
Something has gone wrong.
I no longer feel I belong.

Out there, all seems to be
of no worth unless shackled 
to a cause. Tribal camps yell
obscenities across the lines
of division and commandeer
their gods to mouth 
a sanctioned hate. 
Something has gone wrong.
I no longer feel I belong.

And what can I do 
but play with a frail voice
and think of what could be
and on dark days,
take hope and defiance
in the gentle arms
of Emily Dickinson's poetry.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

Small Fish

Holding onto a rail.
I lean over to see my reflection
mirrored in the water 
and small fish swimming
in the camouflage of me.

I muse whether they are feeding
on my thoughts, nibbling
on the strands that loosely 
float my day, making 
their easy way towards
a dark clumped deep
in my shadow.

I can almost feel 
their small fins brush the inside
of my skull, following
the course of a fear,
threading passage
through a weedy tangle 
of doubt.

Then, swimming deeper,
their excitement seems 
to grow in what they find,
feeding on something
that is hidden from me,
beyond the reflection
of my own mind.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

The Peach Tree

They would ripen all at once
under a hot sun and hang
in a sugary glut only for a day 
or two before starting to spoil. 
I had to be quick and when
the time came, 
I hurried home
from school to clamber up
the tree and seize 
the fruit. Each was a warm, 
engorged globe of flesh 
with just a hint of give 
when a finger was pressed 
into skin.
No command, 
not even from God,
could have held back a bite.

Mouthfuls of sweet peach
sent every pleasure bud
on the tongue into a spasm 
and spilt the overload 
oozing out of the corners
of stretched lips. 
Great gulps 
were hurried down the throat 
to make room for another bite. 
No savoring restraint held
me back, this was volume.
All afternoon
my face and hands 
dripped a sticky syrup,
coating my shirt.

Finally I would have my fill
and sit bloated beneath
the tree surrounded 
by peachstones some still
encased in leftovers 
of pinkish flesh. Sorry evidence
to convict. Afterwards, 
a terrible remorse always
took hold. Next day 
I thought my stomach ache
was punishment from above.
Every year of my childhood,
in the heat of late summer, 
I repeated the same sin,
suffered the same consequence,
hoped for forgiveness 
from a wrathful God.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

The Picture

All day the world has waited
for me to come and rest here,
to welcome me into a picture
it has composed with people 
walking their dogs along 
the water's edge and the wide,
seaweed strewn beach bathed
in the soft light of a setting sun.

‘See what I have prepared’
it seems to say, drawing my eye
to the distant clouds, the water
wearing a golden glaze 
and creased by a gentle breeze,
birds overhead, the sand scored
in a joyous language written
by children's scampering feet.

I sit and take it in,
feast on the exquisite detail
that is layered and worked into
every inch of the scene. 
Memory gives it a name as light
fades and I leave, re-entering 
the dark that is waiting for me
just beyond the frame.

Details | Paul Willason Poem

Lyrebirds

A short walk from the road
you are deep in forest. 
Tall mountain ash form 
pillars that hold up space 
and keep a cathedral 
of shade within its walls.
High overhead, a canopy
of leaves curtain the sky 
in prayerful whispers.

Tree ferns crowd a gully
where fallen giants bridge
a creek carrying a trickle
of mountain tears. 
You keep your silence
not wanting to intrude
on another's grief.

Sometimes you can hear
lyrebirds perform their repertoire 
of mimic song. One, they say,
can copy the sound
of a chain saw, another, 
the long drawn out whine
of a siren as it races
towards a fire.