The Convection Of God

Blackened clouds

Framed with an angry red outside

Push into the pale blue sky

Pale blue as an overdose

Still as a drug user’s body

That lies dying on a bathroom floor

The convection of God comes together

Like a rainstorm

And there’s nowhere to hide from its fury

Lightning will tear the sky in two

In front of you

Night falls and the blackness cries

Heat lightning dances without direction

Without prediction

Yet, always, with purpose

We may not see it at the time

But we eventually know the score

The convection of God

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Wendy O. Williams

Foot stomping

Chain sawing

Woman

Putting it in your face

Fist pumping

Sweat soaked leather clinging

Heels of steel

Head banging lady of fury

Oh, Wendy O, what a wonder you were

Yes, as you said, “I’ve got a reputation”

A nonstop machine, against the machine

Against the business of business

I’m sure

The ones

Making money off generic art feared your voice

Like a train rolling down the track

Like a bullet

Like a sledgehammer

Driven down on top of a television

Creating a short circuit of electrical explosions 

Wendy brought it all

All was what she brought

To every stage she rocked

Like a flower holding a shotgun

Her sweat covered

Muscled body of destruction

Took no prisoners

Took no shit

Wendy O. Williams

You’re truly missed

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

The Night Belongs To The Wolf

Some nights

Most nights

The wolf needs no sleep

For the night belongs to the wolf

You see, she sees

Her reflection cast in the dark water waving below

As it laps the shoreline with subtle soft brushes

Touching her hands and feet in the wet sands of time

All while she crouches near the dark lake of life

The wolf’s gaze catches the moon so full

So big in the midnight sky

As it sparkles atop each ripple of water

It shows like diamonds in her dark eyes

For the night belongs to the wolf

You see, she moves

Like the fox in the first fog of morning

Then like the coyote in the sun cast shadows of the city

The large stone towers of Toronto she calls home

But the power of the wolf is saved for the night

When the darkness is blinded by moonlight

When the stars punch holes in the sky

When green candles flicker

With whispers of well wishes from the wolf

When the cards are read and the wine is sipped  

The night belongs to the wolf

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Discontented With Death’s Roll Call

The blue water tinge of disappointment

The blue water

It sparkles a thousand reflections of my past

My friends that have been taken from me

By its dark deeps

Checked off on death’s roll call

13 left by means of suicide

4 by the blast of a gun from another

2 stabbed

8 last breaths from friends were taken in the twisted metal cars

Smashed into stillness dripping with blood

It’s a sight that never leaves you

3 drowned

1 played Russian roulette

The odds weren’t in her favor

4 were locked up for taking the life of another

Including my grandfather

Prison is just another form of loss 

Shrinks will say

Letting go of loss

Will make you feel better

Then they’ll write you a bill

“Same time, same place, next week on a Tuesday.”

They say with a smile and a wink

Then spit you out

Like the sour taste you’ve become

Spit you out, back into the world

Or they yawn in the middle of

You recalling your nightmares

Then look at their watch

I think, I’m sorry if I don’t have your utmost attention

Of course

I understand

You’ve got a lot on your plate these days

Full schedule and all

So, again you’re spat back out in the world

Suicides are never something easy to deal with

The last was from someone I’d known my entire life

He lay in the crib next to mine

Looking up at the mobile spinning slowly around

With its melodic sound and small colorful animals

Lions, tigers, bears, giraffes, and elephants   

He ended our 42 years of friendship

By shooting himself in the head  

Sorry, there’s no way to be poetic with the previous line

Yet, I still wrote it down

Just to make sense of it all

Just to have something tangible in my hand

On the table

On paper

To make sure all of this was real

Sadly

Suicide is as real as it gets

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Curing

The hospitals create miracles these days

Or at least

That’s what they call it

I see, I see

What they have created

With all of their knowhow

The wigs covering bald heads

False teeth perfectly made for the sick’s now drawn mouth

Perfectly straight

Perfectly able to clinch a new cigarette

Or maybe they’ll smoke it through their new trach

Anything to calm their nerves

From the thousands of dollars in bills coming in each week

To keep them alive

But is this alive or a walking nightmare for the patient? 

A paycheck for the doctor?

In the days of my youth

Folks, lived, loved, and simply died

They never cheated death and they never cheated life

They smoked

They drank

They loved

They lived

They died



This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Blood On The Factory Floor

You know it’s blue, don’t you?

Only for a split second

Which makes it seem even more unreal

Sometimes it flows so fast

There’s a white foam-like substance

That rides its top

Much like the foam that rides the top of a wave

Cresting in an ocean’s far-off horizon

But it’s no ocean

Nor is it a horizon

It’s the fast flowing blood of misfortune

Of pain

The nail gun

The cut knife

The spin of the buzz saw

All

Are jagged teeth of the factory

The machines keep going

As the injured are carried away

We keep working

Watching

The blood of our coworkers mopped up

Putting our feelings aside

For we’ve all sold ourselves to the factory

To the dollar

To the bills that never seem to stop coming

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Coffee and Cigarettes

Holding cigarettes up to the windshield

Using the headlights of the oncoming traffic

To see how many drags you have left

On your way to work

You realize with the best of reality

This is your first steps of making it through a

Long, cold, miserable day

When coffee is the only thing warm you will feel

On those cold winter mornings

When the breeze cuts through to your core

Sharp

Like a blade

Like the edge of paper

Like a sward

Cold, you trudge on in the darkness of morning

Frost crunching under your feet

Your breath

Freezing in front of you as you speak   

All of this

For a paycheck that barely pays the rent

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling