Black And Decker (TM) Ambush
The toaster oven turned house assassin
The switch was off - orange bright light was on
And feeling the unexpected heat
As 'Doubting Thomas' worked the switch
Unbelieving of observation.
Our sweet toaster had turned assassin
And though having missed by some greater grace
As assassins are wont to do
The house would have been the object of its fire.
Justice was summary and swift
Betraying house god to the trash was a fast throw
But despite the execution fear has lingered
Where ever did its malignant spirit go?
poem by Bill Grace
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Two Rings
He gave her a ring shown on black velvet
She wore it daily till her death
She gave him a locket ring
With scrolled letters and hint of heavy gold
He wisely knew its danger and left its wear to son
So this marriage through their years
That went of two score minus three
One with ring and one with out
This was a marriage that grew more true with time.
One last word, young lovers of our different age,
You would do well to ponder the enigma of a world
Where rings could count both for so little and so much
A world in which there was no magic in gold.
poem by Bill Grace
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Death of the 25$ HEB Coffee Cup Experiment
I have not investigated with Holmes like certainty
Why it is gone but it is no more.
The honor system box to recive my quarter has disappeared
and with it the supply of small styrofoam cups.
'You can purchase a medium or large coffee, ' the nice clerk
informs me.
I have refill privileges and take the medium.
Will the annonymous woman with the travel mug ever return
to discover her retribution?
Will the nice lady with the travel mug inquire of the nice clerk
which size is this - medium or large?
I do not know.
This is why I do not sell poetry but it is not free.
poem by Bill Grace
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Memorial Day 2006
It is a decent thing to grieve their loss
Their lives in unexpected Hi Lite upon history's altar
Their was no will to death
We pray their valor was a vision of service.
The young Marine with wire hands haunts me
Stopping in salute before the President's casket
His wire hands so visual a reminder of sacrifice
My mind can not escape that wire hand raised in final salute
It makes me salute the terrible loss - the unconscionable sacrifice -
Of men I have never met closer than a newspaper
And raise my trembling hand in return salute
Of an inadequate acknowledgement of debt.
poem by Bill Grace
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Words for Sergeant Dakota Meyer, USMC – CMH
Someday when your construction job has helped you heal
I hope through google and the further mystery of the internet
These words will find you
The President did not speak falsely
In your dark valley you are far from alone
Your comrades - living and dead – are not alone
Indeed a nation grieves with you
Your truth is proofed
Your honor is secure
You are not alone
You are not alone
The medal is our grief
It is not your grief
Keep your grief – keep your grief
It will heal you
It will heal you
Keep your grief
The Medal is a souvenir from a place
Where there are no shops
poem by Bill Grace
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Start Up
With wife gone and morning's gray turned light
I love the time before the energy of passion comes
When a black chimney can burn into blueing sky
The time before the second cup of coffee
The time before checking the weather on the web
or the New York Times or research that seems to take so much
The time when siren wails are the exception
When cat draws near and dog will think about it.
The time before public dressing,
When street lights cast dog leash and hooded jilaba
And a vastly over size corgi, into the moving shadow of:
'Death Walking His Dog' - a photograph yet to print.
poem by Bill Grace
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Here The Poets Sing Together
The net has united what civil commerce could not join -
Frost laboring twenty years for a two bill tip
No wonder there was a darkness to his soul,
For isolation was his true reward and punishment.
We who have come after have no excuse
For we too must write but have the grace
Of knowing of each others words and place
And in appreciation cheering on
The terrible isolation broken by the power of distant love.
How would Emily if she were with us now
Ever withstand the corruption of such adulation by her peers?
A safety - it seems - that only death or the greatest faith can guarantee.
poem by Bill Grace
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High School Reunion Of A Sort
Perhaps it was the approach of Mother's death
OR that I had missed the group's grand gathering for its twenty fifth
For a hot date in Saudi Arabia
OR Donna the great object of my adolescent desires
Though still buxom had added a matronly air
OR she had outgrown the arrogance of letter wearing sweater days
When passing in vacant halls she would always acknowledge
Anyone but me long before the term 'geek' was invented
But her glee over the coming of ice cream for dessert
Made me realize the vast gulf that had grown
Between my early lust and knowing
The quality of public rest rooms in Paris and in Fez.
poem by Bill Grace
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Max Rosenthau
Father Cleary sat at table with Max many a day
But I don't think he rated a bounteous gift when Max came to visit
Both were guests in the great house acrosss the street of youth
Father for years and Max for yearly one week stints.
The last time Max came was when his wife died
A man so profoundly broken
Even a fourteen year old could start to understand
That the desperation of his giref was the force that drove Max to Mass
Where Father from his view could not give communion to a Jew
And snapped the neck of something deep within me
That despite Father's great friendship
Never came back though I never said a word to Father Cleary.
poem by Bill Grace
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Prayer for Four Hundred
Let us pray - Lord,
We give thanks for the good that is here. We give thanks for our association and for our friendships within it. We give thanks for our freedoms. We give thanks for all of our service people but especially for those who must travel in harm's way and for those who would be with us but could not because they serve in distant lands.
Bless all who are here and all who are here with us in spirit. Grant us journey mercies to our homes, the expectation of future and happy assemblage, and a vision of - and hope and trust in you to help us with the struggles of our pilgrim ways.
For these things we pray in your holy and precious name, Amen.
poem by Bill Grace
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