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#william
~ April 2026 HP Poet: William A. Gibson Country: USA Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, William. Please tell us about your background? William A. Gibson: "Boyhood was completed in the pine belt of southern Mississippi. Seed, cattle, and Baptist churches set the terms. I was replanted in Midtown Atlanta in the 80s, retooling myself into a punk-rock poser. I’ve worked every job that leaves a smell on your clothes. What may be most salient here -- I was a traveling store-opener for a booming bookstore chain that exploded in the 90s and now sits shuttered. I built out and managed the in-store cafés and shelved the poetry section, then chased the next opening across another strip of sprawl. You can trace Interstate 10 and I-5 for where I lived after that." Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry? William A. Gibson: "An enthusiastic HP member since 2018, but I was writing, mostly prose, long before. Wherever I lived, I drifted toward the booky-artsy crowd, the ones arguing about line breaks or pulling apart David Bowie’s Berlin trilogy at a diner at 2 a.m., as if it were more important than sleep. In college towns and warehouse districts, we stapled together ’zines at kitchen tables and hosted readings/slams in spaces never meant for poetry, with frayed cables and bad sound. Those were good years. Fiction or verse, we treated it like it could tilt the world. We were young, art was absolute. HP carries a little of that same restless energy for me now." Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you). William A. Gibson: "Poems aren’t inspiration for me. They’re an intrusion. Something breaks through: a memory with teeth in it, a smell in a bar that pulls me back twenty years, someone’s casual cruelty, a surprising moment of tenderness. I don’t sit down planning to write one. A poem corners me. I write it to get free. With fiction, sometimes the story gets too hot. A character starts to crystallize, becomes too intense for the page I’m building around it, so I bleed that pressure off into a poem. The same thing happens with settings. A room, a street, a piece of weather can take on a charge the story can’t hold yet. The poem becomes a pressure valve, letting me keep the raw voltage without forcing it into plot. Most of the time poetry starts there, with something that refuses to stay quiet." Question 4: What does poetry mean to you? William A. Gibson: "Poems are a recurring condition in my life. I’ve unboxed thousands as pulpy objects, sliding slim volumes onto bookstore shelves city to city. When you spend that much time with poetry in your hands, it stops feeling abstract. It becomes part of the atmosphere you live in. Poetry is present in the messier, uncontrolled parts of life. Love letters that were really poems, and poems that were really arguments. Lines meant for the person I’d just left behind, or for the person I was already aching to see. Sometimes it’s the only language that can carry that kind of tension without collapsing. What poetry means to me now is simple. It’s a way of holding moments as they are. A poem does not resolve them. It does not explain experience. It recreates the moment of encountering it." Question 5: Who are your favorite poets? William A. Gibson: "My favorite poets aren’t really a fixed list. They’re the ones who showed up at the right moment and changed the weather in my head for a while. Right now I’m crushing hard on Ada Limón, and I reach for Seamus Heaney after a glass of wine. They’re both poets who write as if the land itself still has something to say. As a teen I wallowed in Byron, Shelley, Poe. Then the Beat writers, whose sentences felt like highways at night. Burroughs showed up that way. An older, wiser punk rocker said, “You have to read this,” and suddenly language could fracture and rearrange itself. Bukowski arrived in a back kitchen in a sticky, dangerous book -Love Is a Dog from Hell. Anne Sexton and Rilke came from a girlfriend who handed me Letters to a Young Poet like it was a quiet instruction manual for surviving art, and her. That’s how poetry travels—carried by unexpected soothsayers disguised as line-cooks, punks, lovers, and drag queens, making sure the right book finds your hands at the right time." Question 6: What other interests do you have? William A. Gibson: "Outside of writing, I’m an older man in a forgiving climate, so I garden obsessively. Maybe it’s regression to my farm beginnings, or maybe it’s the need to touch something that isn’t processed or generated. Soil doesn’t simulate. Plants don’t autocomplete. They grow or they don’t. That feels like truth. Otherwise I’m a cliché: I work in tech. I founded a Burning Man festival theme camp and still wander back most years. I’m raising a kid, spare time is spent in his orbit volunteering. I judge speech and debate tournaments, run fundraisers, and sit on hot concrete in stadiums during long track meets. Most evenings end in the garden, dirt under my nails, when an old pine-belt memory rises in the dark and the lines begin their slow pursuit again." Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you William, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in the Spotlight series!” William A. Gibson: "Carlo-Thank you again. I’m genuinely honored you thought to include me. I had a great time reflecting on the questions and putting the answers together. It’s exciting to be part of this. Part of something that highlights the voices and stories behind the poems on the site. I really appreciate the work you’re doing to keep this series going and to celebrate the community here. Looking forward to seeing the next Spotlight and continuing to read everyone’s work. Thanks again for the invitation and for the care you both put into this project." Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know William better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez We will post Spotlight #39 in May! ~
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Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 11:23 PM UTC
HP Writers Spotlight: William A. Gibson
~ April 2026 HP Poet: William A. Gibson Country: USA Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, William. Please tell us about your background? William A. Gibson: "Boyhood was completed in the pine belt of southern Mississippi. Seed, cattle, and Baptist churches set the terms. I was replanted in Midtown Atlanta in the 80s, retooling myself into a punk-rock poser. I’ve worked every job that leaves a smell on your clothes. What may be most salient here -- I was a traveling store-opener for a booming bookstore chain that exploded in the 90s and now sits shuttered. I built out and managed the in-store cafés and shelved the poetry section, then chased the next opening across another strip of sprawl. You can trace Interstate 10 and I-5 for where I lived after that." Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry? William A. Gibson: "An enthusiastic HP member since 2018, but I was writing, mostly prose, long before. Wherever I lived, I drifted toward the booky-artsy crowd, the ones arguing about line breaks or pulling apart David Bowie’s Berlin trilogy at a diner at 2 a.m., as if it were more important than sleep. In college towns and warehouse districts, we stapled together ’zines at kitchen tables and hosted readings/slams in spaces never meant for poetry, with frayed cables and bad sound. Those were good years. Fiction or verse, we treated it like it could tilt the world. We were young, art was absolute. HP carries a little of that same restless energy for me now." Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you). William A. Gibson: "Poems aren’t inspiration for me. They’re an intrusion. Something breaks through: a memory with teeth in it, a smell in a bar that pulls me back twenty years, someone’s casual cruelty, a surprising moment of tenderness. I don’t sit down planning to write one. A poem corners me. I write it to get free. With fiction, sometimes the story gets too hot. A character starts to crystallize, becomes too intense for the page I’m building around it, so I bleed that pressure off into a poem. The same thing happens with settings. A room, a street, a piece of weather can take on a charge the story can’t hold yet. The poem becomes a pressure valve, letting me keep the raw voltage without forcing it into plot. Most of the time poetry starts there, with something that refuses to stay quiet." Question 4: What does poetry mean to you? William A. Gibson: "Poems are a recurring condition in my life. I’ve unboxed thousands as pulpy objects, sliding slim volumes onto bookstore shelves city to city. When you spend that much time with poetry in your hands, it stops feeling abstract. It becomes part of the atmosphere you live in. Poetry is present in the messier, uncontrolled parts of life. Love letters that were really poems, and poems that were really arguments. Lines meant for the person I’d just left behind, or for the person I was already aching to see. Sometimes it’s the only language that can carry that kind of tension without collapsing. What poetry means to me now is simple. It’s a way of holding moments as they are. A poem does not resolve them. It does not explain experience. It recreates the moment of encountering it." Question 5: Who are your favorite poets? William A. Gibson: "My favorite poets aren’t really a fixed list. They’re the ones who showed up at the right moment and changed the weather in my head for a while. Right now I’m crushing hard on Ada Limón, and I reach for Seamus Heaney after a glass of wine. They’re both poets who write as if the land itself still has something to say. As a teen I wallowed in Byron, Shelley, Poe. Then the Beat writers, whose sentences felt like highways at night. Burroughs showed up that way. An older, wiser punk rocker said, “You have to read this,” and suddenly language could fracture and rearrange itself. Bukowski arrived in a back kitchen in a sticky, dangerous book -Love Is a Dog from Hell. Anne Sexton and Rilke came from a girlfriend who handed me Letters to a Young Poet like it was a quiet instruction manual for surviving art, and her. That’s how poetry travels—carried by unexpected soothsayers disguised as line-cooks, punks, lovers, and drag queens, making sure the right book finds your hands at the right time." Question 6: What other interests do you have? William A. Gibson: "Outside of writing, I’m an older man in a forgiving climate, so I garden obsessively. Maybe it’s regression to my farm beginnings, or maybe it’s the need to touch something that isn’t processed or generated. Soil doesn’t simulate. Plants don’t autocomplete. They grow or they don’t. That feels like truth. Otherwise I’m a cliché: I work in tech. I founded a Burning Man festival theme camp and still wander back most years. I’m raising a kid, spare time is spent in his orbit volunteering. I judge speech and debate tournaments, run fundraisers, and sit on hot concrete in stadiums during long track meets. Most evenings end in the garden, dirt under my nails, when an old pine-belt memory rises in the dark and the lines begin their slow pursuit again." Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you William, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in the Spotlight series!” William A. Gibson: "Carlo-Thank you again. I’m genuinely honored you thought to include me. I had a great time reflecting on the questions and putting the answers together. It’s exciting to be part of this. Part of something that highlights the voices and stories behind the poems on the site. I really appreciate the work you’re doing to keep this series going and to celebrate the community here. Looking forward to seeing the next Spotlight and continuing to read everyone’s work. Thanks again for the invitation and for the care you both put into this project." Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know William better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez We will post Spotlight #39 in May! ~
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34
Withering sidles the prison from beyond the walls; pendulums practice the renunciation of nocturnal effervescence. Symbiosis fosters, as sorrow ferments— accumulation laughter is within me. I abstain from the madness of these the cells, therefore I am severely punished by my reptilian jailers. They tighten my chains: shackles of Earth-cell domain.
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Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 6:02 PM UTC
Our Reptilian Jailers
We were just two kids, Two hearts that found each other through screens and static and late-night laughter. Miles apart— West Virginia to Kentucky— but somehow, it always felt like you were right next to me. You called me your ****** and I called you mine, two ADHD souls who couldn’t sit still, but always found calm in each other’s chaos. We matched in ways I can’t explain— your energy, your heart, your way of making me laugh when the world felt too heavy to hold. We’d talk on the game for hours, your voice in my headset like home. COD, Fortnite— you teasing me when I messed up, me pretending I didn’t like losing to you. Sometimes, we’d hop on Google Meet, just to see each other’s faces. You’d be lying there in your bed, hair messy, glasses slipping down your nose, that soft country smile that made me melt every time. We’d talk until the night got quiet, until I was halfway asleep, and just before I drifted off, you’d whisper so gently, “I love you… sweet dreams, ****** And I swear, those words still echo in the corners of my heart. You were only fifteen, but you were so much more than a kid. A volunteer firefighter, a hard worker on the field, someone who gave when life never gave back. You’d been through foster home after foster home, felt like nobody wanted you— but I did. I wanted you. Because I saw you for who you really are: kind, protective, funny, and good. So good it hurts. Now you’re gone, locked away for three long years, for something that wasn’t even your fault. You were just standing up for yourself, against the kind of person who should’ve been protecting you. And it breaks me, because you never deserved this. You should be out here— making dumb jokes, laughing with your friends, telling me I’m bad at COD again. Instead, you’re behind walls, and I can’t even hear your voice anymore. Your sixteenth birthday’s coming soon— November nineteenth. Three days after mine. We should be celebrating together, staying up late, being weird and happy and us. But instead, I’ll look up at the sky that night and whisper “Happy Birthday, William,” hoping somehow, you’ll feel it in your heart. And when you get out— I’ll be seventeen, you’ll be eighteen. I’ll drive those five hours to see you, no matter what. You won’t have to stay there anymore— if my dad says yes, you’ll live with us, and I’ll finally get to see that smile in person. No more calls, no more screens, no more “goodnights” through pixels. Just you and me. I miss you, William. I miss the way you made everything better, the way you loved so quietly but so deeply. You’ll always be my ****** the country boy with blueish-gray eyes, the soft laugh that still echoes in my dreams. And I’ll always be the girl who never stopped loving you, no matter how far apart we are. Forever means you and me, even if I have to wait. Sweet dreams, my ****** I’ll see you when you’re free.
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Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 12:41 AM UTC
“Sweet Dreams, My ****** 💔
We were just two kids, Two hearts that found each other through screens and static and late-night laughter. Miles apart— West Virginia to Kentucky— but somehow, it always felt like you were right next to me. You called me your ****** and I called you mine, two ADHD souls who couldn’t sit still, but always found calm in each other’s chaos. We matched in ways I can’t explain— your energy, your heart, your way of making me laugh when the world felt too heavy to hold. We’d talk on the game for hours, your voice in my headset like home. COD, Fortnite— you teasing me when I messed up, me pretending I didn’t like losing to you. Sometimes, we’d hop on Google Meet, just to see each other’s faces. You’d be lying there in your bed, hair messy, glasses slipping down your nose, that soft country smile that made me melt every time. We’d talk until the night got quiet, until I was halfway asleep, and just before I drifted off, you’d whisper so gently, “I love you… sweet dreams, ****** And I swear, those words still echo in the corners of my heart. You were only fifteen, but you were so much more than a kid. A volunteer firefighter, a hard worker on the field, someone who gave when life never gave back. You’d been through foster home after foster home, felt like nobody wanted you— but I did. I wanted you. Because I saw you for who you really are: kind, protective, funny, and good. So good it hurts. Now you’re gone, locked away for three long years, for something that wasn’t even your fault. You were just standing up for yourself, against the kind of person who should’ve been protecting you. And it breaks me, because you never deserved this. You should be out here— making dumb jokes, laughing with your friends, telling me I’m bad at COD again. Instead, you’re behind walls, and I can’t even hear your voice anymore. Your sixteenth birthday’s coming soon— November nineteenth. Three days after mine. We should be celebrating together, staying up late, being weird and happy and us. But instead, I’ll look up at the sky that night and whisper “Happy Birthday, William,” hoping somehow, you’ll feel it in your heart. And when you get out— I’ll be seventeen, you’ll be eighteen. I’ll drive those five hours to see you, no matter what. You won’t have to stay there anymore— if my dad says yes, you’ll live with us, and I’ll finally get to see that smile in person. No more calls, no more screens, no more “goodnights” through pixels. Just you and me. I miss you, William. I miss the way you made everything better, the way you loved so quietly but so deeply. You’ll always be my ****** the country boy with blueish-gray eyes, the soft laugh that still echoes in my dreams. And I’ll always be the girl who never stopped loving you, no matter how far apart we are. Forever means you and me, even if I have to wait. Sweet dreams, my ****** I’ll see you when you’re free.
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91
The me self and the I self and we, were imagining ourselves possessed or, at least, stitched to our weform shadow of an essentially spiritual sameness, as us in weform, not just me, and just me, only thinker thinking, but we, the people judging each other, after all, each day's worth, wasted or used, trying to realize actual ever after, at peace liking your baited hook with 'bated breath held for your liking, look, we can turn blue, waiting for the point where reality pops. Leaving us scatter brained, and much the same, as though we never used the time to seem weformed, just right. What good could one right idea do alone? High five, zenwise, two one hands clapping… in spirit we, our final form, once imaginable strolling streets of gold, with nothing else to do… judgement's all done, hell was not an option, so one of us starts writing on the window between here and there… and catches your attention, this is that, click bait, fishing for mental bytes, organized from bits. Ever learning one can never know everything at once. Just if, and what if, just said so soft, another weform might think it all imagined. While we think it more likely spiritual.
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Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC
Selfish Varieties of Religious Experiences
semiotics ~ relating to signs and symbols "*playful semiotics that makes this digital (poem) feel weirdly tender*"^ (W.A. Gibson) dear friend, will always take tender even weirdly, perhaps especially, when so rendered, and so sweetly tendered but here's the rub, try the onomatopoeia of tender say it slow the tongue reaches up to touch the roof of the mouth, twice, ending in an  smoothly soft exhaling, (go ahead, divert, try it, then return) here, but I do not search for a semiotic, for there can be none, (and there is indeed, none) plain or weirdly, that captures the incredible elegance this royalty of word, so nuanced, so wildly variegated, a thousand shades of existential coloration, far exceeding the rainbow's basic monochromatic monoply, but I know my.reader, many of whom at this exact moment (are taking a pausal break) are taking forefinger to stroke a sleeping cheek, a hand to rub and trace a comforting reassurance to a distempered child, so I need not supply even one more, or than to mention in passing my tenderest adoration to all of you who foolishly read my dabbling, and within them find nuggets I did not even contemplate, and bring me, eyes wetted. to this moment, (9:00am Thu Sep 18), yes, eyes wet, this silly old man, whose heart may be yet healed, with the weirdly wildly tenderest of gratitude                                                                                nml
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Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 11:50 AM UTC
'weirdly tender' semiotics (W.A. Gibson)
semiotics ~ relating to signs and symbols "*playful semiotics that makes this digital (poem) feel weirdly tender*"^ (W.A. Gibson) dear friend, will always take tender even weirdly, perhaps especially, when so rendered, and so sweetly tendered but here's the rub, try the onomatopoeia of tender say it slow the tongue reaches up to touch the roof of the mouth, twice, ending in an  smoothly soft exhaling, (go ahead, divert, try it, then return) here, but I do not search for a semiotic, for there can be none, (and there is indeed, none) plain or weirdly, that captures the incredible elegance this royalty of word, so nuanced, so wildly variegated, a thousand shades of existential coloration, far exceeding the rainbow's basic monochromatic monoply, but I know my.reader, many of whom at this exact moment (are taking a pausal break) are taking forefinger to stroke a sleeping cheek, a hand to rub and trace a comforting reassurance to a distempered child, so I need not supply even one more, or than to mention in passing my tenderest adoration to all of you who foolishly read my dabbling, and within them find nuggets I did not even contemplate, and bring me, eyes wetted. to this moment, (9:00am Thu Sep 18), yes, eyes wet, this silly old man, whose heart may be yet healed, with the weirdly wildly tenderest of gratitude                                                                                nml
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54
Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses, "When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch, he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct, essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur, it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken, for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there is music aching in my muscles and in my perused words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way, and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched, at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase worthy of a poem in and of itself, but let someone else, perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented: *to be heard, to be believed, to be by, relieved, to being understood to be felt, given and + taken, and given a great musical measure of comforting… in summary too, here is where*, I thank you. nml 9/12/25 5:15am
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Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:14 AM UTC
For William A Gibson: "When Raw Grief turns into aching music"
"You are neither here nor there,   How can you be successful?"—a voice in the air.   It muttered once, but I heard it thrice,   A haunting echo, not so nice.   I reflect deep—could this be me?   Is it instinct or a mind not free?   Am I imagining things in vain?   But he is right, and I feel the strain.   Jack of all trade and master of none,   But one who masters will inspire someone.   Too many tasks leave all half done,   While one at a time brings work well spun.   All in one is same as nothing,   But one in one births everything.   I do not write this to condemn,   You can succeed with more than ten.   But purpose and vision must lead the way,   Without them, you’re a leaf that sways.   A man without vision is like a trash,   Waved by the wind in a reckless dash.   I’m glad I’ve found my voice at last,   Through Poetry, wisdom shall be cast.
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Aug 10, 2025
Aug 10, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
THE VOICE THAT SPOKE
my hands burn with the sting of nettle my mouth, dry and tasting of metal his lips, scented with chapstick and chocolate overpower it, taking authority over my mouth, his eyes establish an orbit around me, and my life
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May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
hiking
shall i compare myself to others every day? they are more charming, and more talented: tough luck does take its toll; often too hefty to pay, and the bill of regrets is way past its due date; sometimes too hot the baton of pride burns inside, and often in a sea of mediocrity naked, i swim; and every ball from ball sometimes drops, by a poet in his underpants, and ***** untrimm’d; but my eternal hard-on shall not fade, nor lose faith inside the hole i bore’st; nor shall spite keep me from dues unpaid, when that eternal hard-on in time so grow’st: so long as i can sing, profoundly and care-free, so long lives this - it’s a fun read, won’t you agree?
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Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 10:51 PM UTC
sonnet 18.2.0: shall i compare myself to others every day? (a parody)
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow     To do our country loss; and if to live     The fewer men, the greater share of honour.     God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.     By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,     Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;     It yearns me not if men my garments wear;     Such outward things dwell not in my desires:     But if it be a sin to covet honour,     I am the most offending soul alive.     No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:     God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour     As one man more, methinks, would share from me     For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!     Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,     That he which hath no stomach to this fight,     Let him depart; his passport shall be made     And crowns for convoy put into his purse:     We would not die in that man’s company     That fears his fellowship to die with us.     This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:     He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,     Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,     And rouse him at the name of Crispian.     He that shall live this day, and see old age,     Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,     And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’     Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,     And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’     Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,     But he’ll remember with advantages     What feats he did that day: then shall our names     Familiar in his mouth as household words:     Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,     Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,     Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,     This story shall the good man teach his son;     And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,     From this day to the ending of the world,     But we in it shall be remembered;     We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;     For he to-day that sheds his blood with me     Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,     This day shall gentle his condition:     And gentlemen in England now abed     Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,     And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks     That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
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May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
St. Crispin’s Day By William Shakespeare
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow     To do our country loss; and if to live     The fewer men, the greater share of honour.     God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.     By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,     Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;     It yearns me not if men my garments wear;     Such outward things dwell not in my desires:     But if it be a sin to covet honour,     I am the most offending soul alive.     No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:     God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour     As one man more, methinks, would share from me     For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!     Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,     That he which hath no stomach to this fight,     Let him depart; his passport shall be made     And crowns for convoy put into his purse:     We would not die in that man’s company     That fears his fellowship to die with us.     This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:     He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,     Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,     And rouse him at the name of Crispian.     He that shall live this day, and see old age,     Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,     And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’     Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,     And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’     Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,     But he’ll remember with advantages     What feats he did that day: then shall our names     Familiar in his mouth as household words:     Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,     Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,     Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,     This story shall the good man teach his son;     And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,     From this day to the ending of the world,     But we in it shall be remembered;     We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;     For he to-day that sheds his blood with me     Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,     This day shall gentle his condition:     And gentlemen in England now abed     Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,     And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks     That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
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48
🥀There is a comfort in the strength of love;twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain ,or Break the heart".🥀 Few Lines from A Master piece 🥀William Wordsworth🥀 🥀_Shilhamadhuri_🥀
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Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 1:09 PM UTC
🥀LOVE, BRAIN ,HEART🥀
Orpheus by Michael R. Burch after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. Keywords/Tags: Orpheus, singer, poet, William Blake, whistle, Satanic, mills, manacles, law, leaden, ball, chain, prison, song, freedom
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Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
Orpheus, after William Blake
The guy that got confused between love and pain.
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Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC
William Shakespeare
For most poets it's  an obsession a nagging one a golden thread through out their whole sartorial collection of verse we poets wear our art like suits some fit better than others and some garments well some just need to be shot like lame horses I'm being tangential and sorry for the cruel morbid simile but for my obsession motels the art deco flea circus variety lately though motel and hotel art it could be that I'm in a really good place for once in my life that I can just binge and gorge on still lives of cheap grocery store roses   and whimsical pictures of prancing horses Whit Howland © 2019
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Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 3:05 AM UTC
For William Matthews
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer, bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop. Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments he was surprised to find it contained a small book. The book titled the Plaice of Cod (a philosophical treatise on theology) contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer, several of which were wildly inaccurate and a few that were accurately wild. In the appendix there were twenty-three songs attributed to a medieval troubadour, who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones. William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill, a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs. Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on, took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ****** Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew which some say numbered sixty-nine or seventy-two, but no-one could swear how many were there especially on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right and the cattle lowed on their knees. And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen, and dreamers would dream of jumping through flames that carried the names of those who were soon to be dead. Goats head soup with yarrow root was served to the guests …..whose favourite request was Wort of Sacred Johnny, they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home to the place where the days are shorter. When the dew on the grass …..comes to pass and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway, when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed and the False ones only moved slightly the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring" and the treetops will shake with the dancers the day is but done and the Knights just begun to get a little bit longer. But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle" And riddle me no riddle I need to get high as the moon…. "which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?" "Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes to the ones I'm currently wearing" and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew the Stones roadie crew withdrew for the next seven years their horses drank tears and everyone's fears were fried up for breakfast with marmalade toast two sausage mushrooms and beans eggs over easy rashers done crispy a fried slice or two and a teapot of glue to ensure it stuck to the belly. The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
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Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC
Midsummer's eve
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer, bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop. Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments he was surprised to find it contained a small book. The book titled the Plaice of Cod (a philosophical treatise on theology) contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer, several of which were wildly inaccurate and a few that were accurately wild. In the appendix there were twenty-three songs attributed to a medieval troubadour, who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones. William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill, a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs. Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on, took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ****** Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew which some say numbered sixty-nine or seventy-two, but no-one could swear how many were there especially on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right and the cattle lowed on their knees. And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen, and dreamers would dream of jumping through flames that carried the names of those who were soon to be dead. Goats head soup with yarrow root was served to the guests …..whose favourite request was Wort of Sacred Johnny, they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home to the place where the days are shorter. When the dew on the grass …..comes to pass and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway, when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed and the False ones only moved slightly the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring" and the treetops will shake with the dancers the day is but done and the Knights just begun to get a little bit longer. But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle" And riddle me no riddle I need to get high as the moon…. "which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?" "Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes to the ones I'm currently wearing" and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew the Stones roadie crew withdrew for the next seven years their horses drank tears and everyone's fears were fried up for breakfast with marmalade toast two sausage mushrooms and beans eggs over easy rashers done crispy a fried slice or two and a teapot of glue to ensure it stuck to the belly. The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
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71
This is just to say when i gave you that poem I had no inkling Of what was to come - all the pain awaiting us The ancestral sin Temptation, assured We were manicured, shared prose Dog-hungry for plums.
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Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
Cold and Delicious
Started with history class, without knowing that it would pass. Puppy dogs eyes and and shy butterfly kisses.   Together we felt inseparable and powerful. It wasn't perfect, but it sculpted me into a finished work of art; a project that finally found itself being complete. You passion for studying eyes and keeping my nose in books, it seemed too good to be true. Maybe that's what blinded us to see our failing relationship. Hey I still appreciate you, that's easy to tell. How I grasp at any way I can to message you because its so ingrained.   Hope you find a girl that you can settle down with one day. You deserve it. You made it possible for me when I closed myself off, You caused a shift in my confidence after it was shattered time again. I will always love you deep down but when you love someone, the hardest thing might just be the best thing. I'm sorry that it was by letting you go.
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Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
To William, young love
Side to side His eyes were wandering. "Are you fine?" Came in my worried voice. With piercing eyes, Eyes I didn't understand Of either hatred or wondering love With eyes that pricked me, scotched me Eyes that set my heart on the burning fire without smoke With eyes that sent the burning heat in my tummy He looked at me Little did I know.... Diannie, look at me At last he said. It is over now. With anger I blushed my eyes To the other side. Diannie! Look at me. "Ooh! What a hell is this?" Something ran into my mind. I can't imagine losing him Tears watered down my cheeks At a speed more than The running waters of river Nile Take it leave it, look at him What if you miss on it Something elaborated in my heart Gaining my skeletal courage, And grabbing tears off my cheeks I turned Only to see... Hmmm? Little did I know... . Diannie, my love Shall you marry me? Numbness swept me off the earth. I can't believe it though I couldn't wait it anymore My heart exploded with love, Joy, happiness and excitement Do you really mean it? I asked just because Little did I know That the communication in his eyes Was not of sad news,breakup, desperation,disappointment, dismay But rather... Little did I know That the eyes were communicating great news of Joy, happiness, love and trust Knowing that delay means denial And denial might mean a breakup My heart couldn't wait any longer It applauded In a shy soft and tender voice "Yes my darling Yes with all my everything I trust in you." Little did I know.... That bitterness can turn into sweetness Little did I know That such a bitter quarrel Between us Last evening Would turn into A sweet marriage proposal, And now Our hearts sing rhymes and rhythms of joy and happiness Than never before.
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Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
Little did i know....
Side to side His eyes were wandering. "Are you fine?" Came in my worried voice. With piercing eyes, Eyes I didn't understand Of either hatred or wondering love With eyes that pricked me, scotched me Eyes that set my heart on the burning fire without smoke With eyes that sent the burning heat in my tummy He looked at me Little did I know.... Diannie, look at me At last he said. It is over now. With anger I blushed my eyes To the other side. Diannie! Look at me. "Ooh! What a hell is this?" Something ran into my mind. I can't imagine losing him Tears watered down my cheeks At a speed more than The running waters of river Nile Take it leave it, look at him What if you miss on it Something elaborated in my heart Gaining my skeletal courage, And grabbing tears off my cheeks I turned Only to see... Hmmm? Little did I know... . Diannie, my love Shall you marry me? Numbness swept me off the earth. I can't believe it though I couldn't wait it anymore My heart exploded with love, Joy, happiness and excitement Do you really mean it? I asked just because Little did I know That the communication in his eyes Was not of sad news,breakup, desperation,disappointment, dismay But rather... Little did I know That the eyes were communicating great news of Joy, happiness, love and trust Knowing that delay means denial And denial might mean a breakup My heart couldn't wait any longer It applauded In a shy soft and tender voice "Yes my darling Yes with all my everything I trust in you." Little did I know.... That bitterness can turn into sweetness Little did I know That such a bitter quarrel Between us Last evening Would turn into A sweet marriage proposal, And now Our hearts sing rhymes and rhythms of joy and happiness Than never before.
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66
What is so important to address something to react to the illumine fruity to their balance sips like a goldmine He sways passed you and trips Rose Poumedeur right near your* lips Both stumbling and boasting over her imported wine dress The swinging parasol his cork topped delights Those imported by his number nights Cabernet Sauvignon Hooked to there eyes Million stars to lift Her petite waistline Like heartline of Valentine wine felt dresses Outnumbered you by four words The strenuous tiresome love-wine Be mine the stargaze* dazing inside the sunsets So bottled inside her mission His love how it aged in her in  a good retrospect like Deep cherry confessions The import from a trade surplus She got overlooked got flown in place like a sticker The smart star- reservation   high-demand book To seek her What a chemistry  love- hands creation She's the many vintage dresses A plus The pouring of wine of many fusions The cloudy dress is a minus illusion She learned her entire lesson How many times she was moved around like musical  I tunes of wine CD collection of Rennaisance Battling like the fort chair But someone was moved by her Jazz type of hair My lesson my wish was on hold the mission cruise of the impossible dress Getting weaved inside someone's powerful suite but the best suite and stay The Fort William Henry until this day The Fort William Henry Hotel like no other sorts and what sports Japan imports 77.8 billion exports more than imports Lackadaisical called the breath of sunshine The daisy sundress sitting on the veranda with Fort Williams and the Henry the eight I am children I've been sunbathing looking at the boat The Minne Haha thinking of MaMa Someone was singing like Lady GAGA The matter of great expression of words Hummingbirds at Lake George Picking the best birth of seeds Imported wine what our heart needs Rising demands of the meat like the paradise of lovebirds Her dress was to heal the world Those wildflowers were the sort of thing silence is the  best thing Somehow not the hype of the bling or diamond ring Sometimes the Goddess sun shines more Making her feel loved to sing Her dress had the gimmick to move What a rural fun tree orange grove Like the referee wine shopping spree Everyday people were moved by her gift of imported wines Her gravity of smiles he's mine Her face steams like the highest light beam very well bred and fine The long winding trail her corset gown Started to make head waves to the higher forces So enlightening the lakes such cascades Those wine deep waves romantic To prelude to a kiss the Cosmic The Islander-border lace her face To love and honor her more Not necessarily less that divine moment We should never miss Lake George rippling waves On her outskirts Princess Kelly cheese Italian wine Naples deserts The evergreen  long dress Shined your Highness the Roman pillars How he grabbed her waist dancing like the Gatsby Gave her such splendor everlasting sip But the imported wine was deeper To Set up the date To Make- the wine up In the cellar aged hours to perfect What a stir over her dress-up deep ruby wine start to pour end of a new beginning subject To book the trip Lake George New York All you had to do Go to the Fort William Henry Hotel like a home with family So many friendly faces with smiles All you have to do is show up
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Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
Imported Wine Dress
What is so important to address something to react to the illumine fruity to their balance sips like a goldmine He sways passed you and trips Rose Poumedeur right near your* lips Both stumbling and boasting over her imported wine dress The swinging parasol his cork topped delights Those imported by his number nights Cabernet Sauvignon Hooked to there eyes Million stars to lift Her petite waistline Like heartline of Valentine wine felt dresses Outnumbered you by four words The strenuous tiresome love-wine Be mine the stargaze* dazing inside the sunsets So bottled inside her mission His love how it aged in her in  a good retrospect like Deep cherry confessions The import from a trade surplus She got overlooked got flown in place like a sticker The smart star- reservation   high-demand book To seek her What a chemistry  love- hands creation She's the many vintage dresses A plus The pouring of wine of many fusions The cloudy dress is a minus illusion She learned her entire lesson How many times she was moved around like musical  I tunes of wine CD collection of Rennaisance Battling like the fort chair But someone was moved by her Jazz type of hair My lesson my wish was on hold the mission cruise of the impossible dress Getting weaved inside someone's powerful suite but the best suite and stay The Fort William Henry until this day The Fort William Henry Hotel like no other sorts and what sports Japan imports 77.8 billion exports more than imports Lackadaisical called the breath of sunshine The daisy sundress sitting on the veranda with Fort Williams and the Henry the eight I am children I've been sunbathing looking at the boat The Minne Haha thinking of MaMa Someone was singing like Lady GAGA The matter of great expression of words Hummingbirds at Lake George Picking the best birth of seeds Imported wine what our heart needs Rising demands of the meat like the paradise of lovebirds Her dress was to heal the world Those wildflowers were the sort of thing silence is the  best thing Somehow not the hype of the bling or diamond ring Sometimes the Goddess sun shines more Making her feel loved to sing Her dress had the gimmick to move What a rural fun tree orange grove Like the referee wine shopping spree Everyday people were moved by her gift of imported wines Her gravity of smiles he's mine Her face steams like the highest light beam very well bred and fine The long winding trail her corset gown Started to make head waves to the higher forces So enlightening the lakes such cascades Those wine deep waves romantic To prelude to a kiss the Cosmic The Islander-border lace her face To love and honor her more Not necessarily less that divine moment We should never miss Lake George rippling waves On her outskirts Princess Kelly cheese Italian wine Naples deserts The evergreen  long dress Shined your Highness the Roman pillars How he grabbed her waist dancing like the Gatsby Gave her such splendor everlasting sip But the imported wine was deeper To Set up the date To Make- the wine up In the cellar aged hours to perfect What a stir over her dress-up deep ruby wine start to pour end of a new beginning subject To book the trip Lake George New York All you had to do Go to the Fort William Henry Hotel like a home with family So many friendly faces with smiles All you have to do is show up
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118
You’ve mastered the act You’ve turned off emotions Now everything’s black I am truly sorry I slowly grow colder It’s always my fault She breaks when I hold her He’s bitter and angry There’s pain in his eyes He bleeds from his struggle His will slowly dies There’s things I’ve done The things I regret The problems I caused I won’t easily forget But i’M nowhere near perfect And neither are you Let’s all hurt each other I’ve lost you two -M.O.I
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Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
I Blame Myself
MY build to suit mind is designed for disappointing, a warehouse space of dim lights, taunted by an l.e.d. retrofit, TREPIDATIOUS, unable to sign my life's lease to own, YEARS spoiled like produce, a dumpster gratefully digests. I was 7, a little league southpaw, my arm, accurate on the mound. PRACTICE of carelessly skipping stones over invulnerable ponds. that day, the equation was misaligned, numbers squared roots and CAUSED the answer to spawn seismic ripples of infinite affects. it was the split second that was carelessly skipped and THIS boy's vulnerable retina, the invulnerable pond. although I was the expert marksman, I begged William not to Tell, SO he blindly obliged my apple-shot withdraw request, NOW spoiled produce my dumpster won't gratefully digest. WHAT i regret most is not saying, William. Tell.
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Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
William. Tell.
Sweet William,             I've done heard it all be-fore,           You got the looks, got the hair,              that clever draw and more... But sweetie here I am again, Got Momma here, -crying again. Wrecked-up face, my map of men, This time so bad, lad, -you ain't fixin' William!     My sweet Will-i-am, William!     My sweet Will-i-am, ...you ain't gonna hit me no more. Some love is hard/borders on sin, Crying to God, please A-men? Goodbye door, my bags packing, Well-heeled feet, living A-gain, William!     My sweet Will-i-am, William!     My sweet Will-i-am, ...you ain't gonna hit me no more. SWEET WILLIAM!     Sweet William, Hurting no, -no more... Call me up- 'ev-er-y' night Devil at My door, Battle yourself/I'm not your fight. ...you ain't gonna hurt me no more.
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Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:32 AM UTC
William!
The sun casts two shadows of me down on the pavement And I could do without either. Oh what to do when your own novelty wears off, But leave the clown for the birds. Some swords have two edges but what does that matter if they're already in your stomach. I don't believe in God yet, But I do believe in karma. So **** the part of me that loves the world And I promise there'll be hell to pay.
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Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
The Slaying of William Gant