Daylight

Can you hear the bell ringing

in the early daylight.

Can you hear the heart crying

late at night.

Gliders drifting overhead

as the night turns into day;

Can you hear the bell ringing

in the early daylight.

Can’t you see the sun through foggy eyes

hoping for new life falling from the gliding sky.

Help is on its way in the

early in the day;

Can’t you hear the bell ringing

in the early daylight.

What It Means to Write!!

I thought I would explain what it means to me to write poetry.  Poetry is a way for me to get inside my emotions and thoughts, much like assessing your subconscious with active words. Writing has always been a way for me to explain my thoughts, concerns, friendships, things that have happened, and love. What I could not say or feel on the outside I could write about from the inside. I was 13 when I began to write. It has been a great way to express my purpose using alliteration and metaphors to really bring out the true hidden thoughts.  Writing, yes, is an escape but it is what makes me truly love life, people, and all the surroundings with a passionate feeling.

Many things inspire me to write and for the most part it is the relationship between me and my thoughts.

Bill 

Mist

And as the North wind blows

we cherish

the view of a saltmarsh; misty.

Birds

diving at sea life exposed by the low outgoing changing tide.

Moonbeams streamed into a warm room,

as your reflection is silhouetted off a crystal light shade.

Circular snowflakes

were falling in parallel unison,

and ice cracked with the shifting tide.

You

were content as our warmth

increased with every breath.

I looked outside a frosted window 

and

saw high tide reach peak, and

surrounded the sea grass for another eight hours.

As the North wind blew, echoes came from waves crashing against

the breakwater

and

 our thoughts sailed back into the mist

echoing against the bare walls of our frosted room.

Return

Twenty years

of dust transcended by

winds traversing through poignant canyons

as tidbits have been telegraphed to a wayward star.

Forgotten is your flowing hair

like the distant sunset to the West.

Faint laughter, arguments

cloaked in naive

love.

Years asleep, I revisited our familiar meeting place.

Bright light was slowly overcome by

darkness,

I heard again,

the echoes from the belltower

Small Expressions

Though you see my passions never unfold,

this young poets tale will never be

told whole.

He is at a loss of expression, and

will someday teach the world a literary lesson.

On Becoming Famous

Peddling endlessly on a treadmill…

…. you called it.

We search for style, glory and honor,

gain style, miss honor

and acclaim glory.

Some inhibit style, saturate glory and harbor honor.

I've attained style, lack glory

and feel honor,

metaphored life, grace and

rhymed my way to

individuality,

interpreted words wrongly

set on wet cement

from lack of style and meter

but have attained a level of

madness.

Mountain Dust

Your soft voice, once so angelic

became hard,

short

and felt like one hit a brick wall at 50

So the memories stay fresh

but fade in time.
The hurt continues with 

profound pain.

We ventured into uncharted feelings.

Maybe too fast.

Maybe not fast enough

 for us to realize our buried love.

Our emotional state deteriorates

as the volcano continues to

erupt.

Sealed now, lots of ash, smoke and

hurtfully dormant, snow capped, until another eruption.