"williamson" poems
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection he's going to die either way what's it matter?
buzz of fly crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for
instantaneous brain death
hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
I met Virginia in a wave of sleet.
On Decatur, a hundred winters ago,
with a black iris, black hair in ponytail,
with a tongue like a nightcrawling widow,
Virginia whispered tornados behind the backs of the
grey-suited saxophone players, going blue in the cheeks,
under their blackface.
Under a flimsy sheet of moon sliver sky and a dim streetlight,
Virginia kicked a soda can along the cracking concrete.
With each bar we passed, I hollered, "Thank God we're alive!"
and danced a shapeless jig.
Near Williamson cemetery, Virginia's white knuckles laced into mine.
"The amount of time we have cheapens whatever purpose we have,"
Virginia hissed.
I caressed her serpentine neck.
A lone car's high beams
made Virginia's silhoutte tower above the cemetery gates,
made Virginia's black irises madden to poisonous yellow.
She loosened my grey necktie.
I let down her hair.
A sea of collected strands fell
like a closing curtain.
The distant saxophone ascended to heaven,
leaving me below,
leaving me below,
leaving me to spend the night bellowing for above.
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 4:35 AM UTC
It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.
Resting for a spell, I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.
But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am.
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.
The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.
May, 2006
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
To the Williamson Brothers
High noon. White sun flashes on the Michigan Avenue
asphalt. Drum of hoofs and whirr of motors.
Women trapsing along in flimsy clothes catching
play of sun-fire to their skin and eyes.
Inside the playhouse are movies from under the sea.
From the heat of pavements and the dust of sidewalks,
passers-by go in a breath to be witnesses of
large cool sponges, large cool fishes, large cool valleys
and ridges of coral spread silent in the soak of
the ocean floor thousands of years.
A naked swimmer dives. A knife in his right hand
shoots a streak at the throat of a shark. The tail
of the shark lashes. One swing would **** the swimmer...
Soon the knife goes into the soft under-
neck of the veering fish... Its mouthful of teeth,
each tooth a dagger itself, set row on row, glistens
when the shuddering, yawning cadaver is hauled up
by the brothers of the swimmer.
Outside in the street is the murmur and singing of life
in the sun--horses, motors, women trapsing along
in flimsy clothes, play of sun-fire in their blood.
1.9k
Storm clouds rollin' in
I hear the lightning and wind create ambient noise while while Sonny Boy Williamson plays the main event.
The trails and troubles of a ***** tonic create a humble abyss of pure synthetic pleasure.
I try to understand these burning waves of unwanted desire that mold my inner being into an obscure life form.
The desired unconscious being.
Confusion brought on by my own state of unconscious consciousness.
I love so much I become sober with tired will that reconciles nothing.
**** The thunder cracks.
The dog is knocking.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
"our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure,
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us,"
Marianne Williamson wrote those words in 1992
To me those words are still some of the most inspirational words
Have you ever heard of a suicide complex
I'm willing to bet you have just not called a suicide complex
Yes I mean suicide and no I do not mean a complex suicide
That kid that you saw today walking down the hall thinks about killing himself everyday and doesn't because he can expect great things to come from his life
Why?
Maybe not because he is smart or charismatic or hard working but because he has beaten death,
Yes he continues his life because he believes that he is a beacon of hope for the hopeless,
That girl that everyone calls a ****
Has never once done a ****** thing
She has never thought of being sexually active
She has held onto her boyfriend longer than any of you
She has considered cutting her wrists and saving the trouble of ******** and name calling
But she doesn't because she knows there are people who love her while the people who call her a **** or ***** are just jealous because they don't have the life she does
That **** that everyone loves once thought about shooting up the school he once thought if no one would remember him for anything other than being that fat kid in 5th grade that he should be remembered for killing everyone he hated
But what changed
He found his calling
He found his sport and he is popular
In school he sticks with the jocks and outside he hangs out with the outcasts because they were with him before he was popular
I once thought about ending my very existence
I had never done anything important and probably never would
And I never believed people when they told me I would do great things with my life
I want you to know two thing about me
I'm tired of pretending
I'm terrified of it ending
But because of you I will never let it end
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
The hadron collider showed an unknown influence affecting subatomic particles.
“Is this proof of a higher power in the universe?” asked Marianne Williamson.
“Is this Will, is this magick?”
Yes Herr Nietzche, there will always be unknowns in human science as the scientists should have known all along, instead of substituting the most recent names of observations as the replacement of God.
No, there probably isn’t free will but we seem to be life in the unknown with more power than any other around.
This universe may just repeat on and on but what do you do with that knowledge? Can you even help to choose what you choose?
All these past influences and instinctual impulses lead the charge. But there's that spark. That mystery if we can ever really know and comprehend it all with limited senses, time, and minds.
Maybe you don’t have a choice in your life, but you can have the feeling you do. The feeling you can shape your world amid the destiny you feel in your heart.
Practice being a yeasayer to life because that just might be your fate.
Amor fati each time around.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 9:10 PM UTC
I told the swifts they’d got it wrong
I watched them glide and dip and play
The sky was of the richest hue
Without a the slightest hint of grey
But slowly as the day wore on
The clouds began to blot the light
And doubts began to fill my head
Could the swifts have got it right?
Of course they had, why even ask
No confusion in their feathery heads
The clues were plain, the signs were clear
The rain would come, as soon as said
And so it did, with lightening flash
With thunderous roar and constant pound
With drops the size of apricots
To slake the tired and parch-ed ground.
We mustn’t doubt our fellow creatures
They feel things that we’d never sense
Watch for signs and **** an ear
And bow to Nature’s sapience.
Stuart Williamson August 2016 ©
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
by Marianne Williamson
Our deepest fear is not that we
are inadequate. Our deepest
fear is that we are powerful
beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I
to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does
not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened
about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure
around you. We are all meant
to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest
the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us;
it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other
people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from
our own fear, our presence
automatically liberates others.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
When the hand of his timepiece
reached the top of the hour
Sam pushed the throttle forward.
Engine 138 thundered
out of Blossburg station
like an iron dragon
breathing smoke and steam –
it's whistle shrilling the Tioga valley.
Powered by coal
his train carried coal
to the shops and homes of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother’s hand –
perhaps for the final time.
The wheels, churned iron on iron,
across Pennsylvania farmland
just as yesterday’s wheels
moved his grandfather's oxcart
to their new family spread
alongside the Williamson road.
Newer wheels carry America
to urban landscapes
attracted like electro-magnets
to streetlamps – factories –
five and dime stores –
new crops for a modern age.
Elmira’s silhouette breached the horizon
and Sam pulled the train in on time -
brakes screeching through billowy steam.
His Jenny and his sister’s Sam
had come in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Ed and Marie -
children now grown at their sides.
They all gathered to Hannah’s bed,
now approaching her final hours.
Soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond telling;
Time, ever advancing
like an ever-turning wheel
holds us all in its circling sway.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
Who to hedge?
Mayor Butigedge?
Camelot with Harris?
All trying to scare us
Bidin’ my time
With this rhyme
Oh! Sleepy Joe
Establishment’s gotta go
Does Bernie Sanders
Really furnish answers?
Can Gillibrand
Instill a better plan
Choose Hickenlooper
Over Agent Cooper?
Is Eric Swalwell
Really ready as well?
Is senate Bennett
Really in it?
With smart I could I hang
Can do, Andrew Yang
There on the end,
Author Williamson
Sometimes chiming in
Hanging in
Add it up, Kamala
Show us the algebra!
Universal health care
Always and everywhere
Here’ a real shocka:
Gotta keep that DACA
We need legislation
To fix immigration
And yes we can
Care for veterans
Tax the rich, *****
Time to shun guns
Meet the feed need
Help the poor more
All in a home zone
And note every vote
And yo:
Not your embryo
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 11:49 AM UTC
‘The Immensity’ by Stuart Williamson
“La Inmensidad”
Salvador’s words
Vast burgeoning watery place
Myriads of small creatures tumbling to the sands
Spent waves already fighting back against the tide
Cemetery walls crumbled in its wake
The bones of long dead fishermen once again felt the air
And a *** the work of human hands
Striped with red around its rim
Cradled within a larger bowl
Exposed for us, and all to see
Left for a thousand years or more
To be held with pleasure once again.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
We live in cigarette smoke and shadows and uncontrollable laughter; in music, and in the way the wood floor creaks and shakes the whole house even when you walk lightly on it.
We live in cold basement walls and staircases lined with blue neon lights.
We live in confusion and my fingers pressing into your skin and the way you would wrap all of yourself around me while I ****** you.
We live in the ***** moments followed by the sweet ones where you would kiss my forehead and I could feel your warm body slide up against me in the middle of the night.
The most I remember of those days was bundling up in layers and walking outside through snow up to our knees just to get to Williamson road under the setting sun just so we could get a pack of cigarettes.
The sky was dark blue and it reminded me a lot of your eyes.
I remember waking up to the sound of guitars upstairs and the way you nodded your head and lost yourself in the melody of your own music.
I would watch your fingers-- the way they would pluck the cords and slide over the instrument so effortlessly.
And you look at me from across the room and for a moment, I'm at a loss for words
so I just smile.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
The Palette Poised
The palette poised
As if…….. some archaic ballroom
Oiled and smoothed by years of feint and flourish
Marks of previous jigs and gambols
Colors placed in magic sequence
Waiting for to dance and mingle
Stuart Williamson 2015 ©
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
My favorite quote by Marianne Williamson
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
THE SUIT
This costume of an older me
Does not sit well upon my frame
Each stage with attending uncertainty
Not the suit in which I came
Remembering childhood’s exotic clothes
Allowing oneself the luxury
Recalling pleasures not the woes
To bask in simple reverie
Favourite secret places gone
Quarry, pond and places dark
Different children jump my stones
Their arrows find a different mark
Paths and houses, muted, still
I stand alone amongst my friends
Black against white, a bird stares back
At this version of my earlier self
The memory still astounds me now
For no reason that is plain to tell
A sense of wonder, deep content
My earlier, suit it fit me well
Stuart Williamson Estero, Feb. 2015 ©
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
I’m still here, said the Bamiyan Buddha
Rubble and hatred up to his knees
And his precepts are sound, and will go on forever
Despite the barbaric atrocities.
Stuart Williamson ©
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
I'm gonna exploit love, until it can't be exploit no more.
Gonna enjoy every moment of it.
And gonna show it to you.
I'm gonna be endearing to you.
Make love sincerity be a proven trait to you.
And no other will be able to surpass by impression.
We gonna be enhance will all forms of romance.
That at night , you will think it was explosive of dynamite.
And instead of three the hard way.
It will be strength of heat with just the two of us.
We be the stars, instead of Jim Brown or Fred Williamson.
And there'll be plenty of action like in Black Belt Jones.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC