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Bill Yates Poem
If I stare at the blank page long enough
Words will appear,
Words written in black ink, not mollified.
The words will grow together
Like grass forming a sod.
Then, as if on cue,
Spoons dance,
And horseshoes have wings.
A very short story would be the prime motive,
A murder of crows, perhaps.
And perhaps not.
Sometimes, the mud crawls together like glue.
It seals the burial of the crows.
It speaks in a slow language.
To interpret the hieroglyphs of the gods
Would be worthy.
The phone rings:
It is Kathmandu, dispirited.
Out of Montana a horn blows,
And the mountains sing.
The magpies are summoned to a conference
They will divide the spoils.
Their calls resound
On the north face of a mountain.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
All that time will do
is install you
in comfortable stockings.
The wind howls away the years.
Foxes hunt even while we sleep.
The binding is broken.
The straps are disconnected.
Wind carries away
even massive objects.
It is the tornado of life.
Chunk chunk
Clink clink
The mind keeps puffing
like a steamer.
Even pine trees are inspired
by the wind.
Shadow Rock hides the eyes
of children.
Their eyes grow heavy with sleep,
and they groan.
The bad dream progresses;
a story unfolds.
There can be no talking
during this time of storms,
this time of hiding behind rocks.
There is nothing left
worth stealing.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
The knowers are the star gazers
Who sit on the corner of the crescent moon
Wildly, wildly
With sparkling eyes
My notions are lacking substance
Lacking grace
Lacking innuendo
Separately I traverse
The same familiar paths
Day by day
Until the paper plates are all used up
And I sink deeply
Into a cushion sleeping
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
Once under the rubber moon,
elves wore pointed hats.
And I, a traveler from another star
wrote my resume.
It said,
"This is my resume
wherein I write without a rhyme.
Trust me or not,
it is the same".
Why should I be seeking work
at this late hour?
It is enough to drain away
the years,
to fabricate lies to sew upon my pillow.
Every turn of the road
in this wasteland
reveals a scorching desert,
with no monument in the sand.
Somewhere soon,
during a glad month,
there will be a rose in the desert,
a monument in the sand.
And the air will be filled
with sweetness.
And all who see
will want to taste the dew
upon the rose.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
Self-control is the first lesson of life,
when learning to be presentable.
An alternate lifestyle
will bring you grief,
but you are no different
in that respect.
All grieve.
Delete everything
you should not have said
or done.
There is a scream,
then nobody is there.
The machine shuts down
at the end.
Silence is the last friend.
Only heaven fathoms
a blank screen.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2016
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Bill Yates Poem
Out in the night
A wolf howls.
Dogs bark and coyotes chatter.
The birds are still;
Silence is their shroud.
Stars twinkle overhead.
Saturn turns and spins like a top.
Nothing is lost in that vast night
While owls hunt,
And bats dart like crooked bullets.
It is a portrait of calm
Predators of the night stalk for meat.
Ears and eyes for the night
Are on full alert.
Death awaits, giving life.
Earth's sustenance is full;
There is enough.
Nothing is wasted in this plan
Of grand nature's design.
Pain is for a moment,
Then life goes on.
The hunter and the hunted
Never sleep,
They only doze in fits and starts.
Soon a killer will be full.
Soon the nightly prey
Will be silent and torn.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
The axis of time foments rage,
And eats freely of cloth.
Even better days will wilt,
Crying, What else comes hither?
The snow on the mountain
Is frozen now, but soon will melt.
The days lengthen like shadows
in the evening.
Time moves on eating as leprosy,
Fomenting trouble upon the unwary.
Post haste, my friend,
And I will trouble you no more.
Beyond some early horizon
The sail of a ship is visible.
It portends a morning:
Shaking to and fro as drunken.
The axis of time foments rage,
The snow on the mountain is frozen now.
Time moves on eating as leprosy,
Beyond some early horizon.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2018
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Bill Yates Poem
What's the espresso this evening, Rubicam?
My random access memory will light upon it
As I riffle the files of my brain.
Pulling out something fresh,
I burst out with words to cover the enigma.
Bones
Bones are the fare--
Stewed bones with marrow deep inside.
Cracking the bones of the chicken leg,
I find essence,
Everlasting purity so well stored and tucked away,
Like a savings account or DNA.
The vapor of mud rises fleet and narrow.
This is the conduit of the inner sanctum,
The railroad across Canada in the snow.
Red vertigo covers the wheels as they turn,
Rolling asunder like a sky.
We eat and gorge on the beauty of it--
The holy thing--
Sent all holy and shiny new.
We split the marrow with a scalpel,
All sharply tooled and honed.
The operation is a success at last--
Liberation is at hand surely.
The vice has fallen away,
And the orange center is revealed.
My word-center is on autopilot;
I am still, silent, patient.
Then the marrow grows overabundant,
Needing quick hands to capture the thief,
Lest escape be granted.
The expository hose is drawn up.
The bare leg is covered and modesty satisfied.
There is no canker in this truth,
Being pure to the core,
Pure as blood-marrow.
The stigma is gone out of it.
Holy is the anthem and the chorus
Sings a greeting to the little people
Who stand waiting in line.
They watch for some illumination
Of the dark letters written on their souls
Bandits would not deride them
in such an instance.
Horses in a fever will trample words,
But words re-form; they cannot die.
You who bear the mystery,
Who cannot die,
You have palpated my heart
And signified a vast reference point,
Pleading to me with a sad song.
My turbulence is all inside me,
A stormy affair,
Always sorting and reeling back with shock
As the ivy vine climbs the ancient wall.
If you had no device,
Would you not read more books?
The man dignified in the third person
Will ask the questions here, mind you.
Return to me again loon of the wide lake,
Loon hiding in the reeds.
Show me your face before you fly,
And sound your voice in the evening.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
The cantilevered soul
looks up--
Wonders at the mood,
Strikes out alone.
Reduces
All to stone.
He revels in sight;
He sees beyond.
To see or be seen is
his motto.
Truly he will fall
From that old wall
and break
not gently.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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Bill Yates Poem
Those who climb mountains
live forever
unless they fall.
They only drink icicle drip
and chew thorns.
Their soles are like thin mattresses
that are well used.
They breathe tinted air,
unfiltered.
Over and over again
the hill is calling.
No obstacle is too long.
They are blind
except by instinct.
A raptor circles, catching a thermal.
The climber would mount one
and ride higher
if he could.
A rock falls from its place
and like a seesaw
lifts the hikers.
Always there is imagination.
Always there is a goal.
Sky is no limitation.
Her imagination is married
to her distant goal.
Rules are broken here:
no time for fooling.
They are reaching,
reaching,
Like shoppers wanting stacked goods
on a high shelf.
The eagle flies in the day;
the climbers never stop.
Mountaineers are like people,
colorful as the Swiss.
Their cheeks glow like tomatoes.
Their toenails are steep.
Finally the launch is ready
and all who climb
drift down again.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2015
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