You are the breath and the breeze.
I
am the tree you speak to.
You
are silver streams of rain.
I
am dark soil, waiting,
the
seed that opens to hear the new tale told.
You
are mystical energy.
I
am the dreamcatcher who interprets
your
vision, your words, your sight.
You
are sunlight streaming through space.
I
am a world waiting to live and catch fire.
~William Hammett
Site Map
Herons, ducks, and geese
rise
in morning splendor
from
a gold and violet dawn,
the
sun giving them due notice
to
migrate to the next best place
they
are unaware of.
They
will follow
the
poetry of sky,
already
sensing the pen
or
pencil on the pad
Wingtips
dip unpolished silver water,
ascend
to the great flapping and waving
of
flight known only to an author
not
in visible sight.
But
oh, in time, in time.
In
time
they
land on her shoulders, knees,
on
her hands and arms
and
in her poems,
where
they become
ink,
cursive and swooping,
dipping
on the off-white page
to
describe the feathered meaning
of
fowl.
They
speak of sedge and reeds
and
mud and the ether
that
binds it all together as one.
The
still words are moving,
the
meaning set and yet undone
with
the flapping of a page.
I
wish I could live,
write,
and see as one of these,
the
little ones who form
a
kingdom in search of a scribe
with
words that may
or
may not rhyme
depending
on what she sees
at
any particular time.
~William Hammett
Site Map
I am the gentleman in the black
tuxedo,
on
his arm the model with alabaster skin.
I
am the Rock of Gibraltar risen from the sea
to
escort the twisting form of femininity.
I
am the woman in the white evening gown
wearing
diamonds enough to rival midnight stars.
I
am the matrix of Eve and carnal desire.
I
am the Logos, the Second Coming,
and
if you tell me that I am mad,
off
the rails or something worse,
I will say, “Why didn’t you notice earlier?”
The
stable at Bethlehem is just down the street
from
my house and from yours.
We
are all shapeshifting swiveling hips,
the
man with the handsome chiseled jaw,
all
preachers from Galilee, apprentices
holding
a hammer, a plane, and a saw.
We
are all incarnations of the divine.
You
may not have remembered until now,
but
you once sat under the bodhi tree,
once
you awakened from a dream.
There
was a time when you rose to the occasion
and
turned water into wine.
~William Hammett
Site Map
I don’t know who God is,
but
you will do, my dearest,
for
when our breath was joined
in
a kiss long or short,
there
was spirit, the knowing
beyond
all knowing,
the
fire that illuminates desire,
the
stream that cools the lips,
the
bird speaking in tongues
while
perched on the evening wire.
Your
short dark hair was soft,
as
was your voice, your life,
your
gentle way of holding me
with
your bedroom eyes.
A
cloud sailed over my head
not
very long ago
when
the day was almost lost,
but
I remembered you,
not
for the first time,
and
the moment was saved.
~William Hammett
Site Map
For the sake of argument,
let
us agree that the chance encounter
was
at a quaint café on a narrow street
where
I sipped coffee and you drank wine.
Despite
this side-by-side jitterbug and waltz,
we
decided that Proust was entirely too heavy
to
carry around in a rucksack or the brain.
For
the sake of argument, we strolled the park
with
a bottle of wine and a baguette,
staring
at the lake and catching imaginary fish,
though
you pulled in a black rubber boot,
claiming
that you must paint it in your loft.
Found
art is the best, you said.
There,
with the blessing of Neruda,
I
admired your free-flowing fountain,
the
landscape of your valleys and mountains,
your
flat stomach and rolling breasts,
the
slope of your thighs and shoulders.
But
let us dismiss this rhetorical argument,
for
I see a story in your eyes.
Let
us begin with chapter one, page one,
a
story so long that it will be carried for decades
without
burden or the lost time of Swann.
You
are my found art, a prose poem
that
ends with our sleeping in each other’s arms,
our
hair gray, our dreams of coffee
and
wine and baguettes in the park.
Now
to begin: Once upon a time.
~William Hammett
Site Map
He was a man in a maze
who
loved to fight and argue with God,
who
wasn’t afraid to take issue
with
prohibitions and guilt
and
throw it all back in his face,
as
it were.
Good
for him.
And
there was his love of Marianne
and
Tangled Up in Blue,
the
one that got way,
but
not really, not for good.
You have to admire
the
kiss savored for decades
and
sex as a sacrament
that
keeps the universe
from
spinning apart.
Good for him.
At
the end,
he
signed his treaty
with
the Great Whatever
and
asked to be dealt out of the game.
He
had ponied up the lyrics
that
were as fluid and sacred as wine.
Good
for him.
At
the end,
he
felt the dark night pulling him,
and
his songs, his priests,
his
hallelujah hosts
had
blessed a world with sin,
and
whether he knew it or not
had
said it’s alright to be who you are.
All
I have to say about any of it
is
good for him.
~William Hammett
Site Map
In the wildflower
lies
the universe
and
perhaps many more
in
a field so wide
that
I cannot comprehend
the
origin of its root.
It
is a blossom
born
of rain and sun
and
yet already created
in
its bodhisattva mind.
In
the small is the great,
in
the great is the small.
Its
petals of glory
hold
the all in the all.
There
is a field to my right
with
a thousand more.
If
only the wildflower
could
speak to me,
I
would be free.
If
only the wildflower
would
speak to me,
I would be free.
~William Hammett
Site Map
It is a grand assembly
of
quavers and semiquavers,
a
convocation
of
quarter and half notes,
a
diminished seventh,
a
major fifth
propelled
and prolific
from
black prison bars,
the
almighty staff,
into
the air harmonic
by
whispering woodwinds,
sensual
strings,
audacious
brass,
pounding
tympany,
strangers
in a cotillion,
unlike
dancing
with
unlike
until
they are married,
swirling
from altar
to
reception hall
to
consummation bed,
movements
made
by
key signatures,
sharp
and minor,
into
everyday life
tuned
to vibrations
dancing
counterpoint
up
and down the spine.
~William Hammett
Site Map
What are the chances
of
you reading this?
What
are the chances
of
anything happening at all?
The
quiet man sits on the park bench
that
he dreamed about.
A
woman sits on the bench,
the
very same one,
next
to the quiet man
that
she dreamt about,
both
drawn to time, place, and soul
by
strange winding rivers
driven
by eddies and currents
too
deep to fathom.
Life
is a dream,
and
the dream is life
when
we notice the random
billboard,
song, painting,
the
chance encounter,
the
conspiracy of coincidence
for
which we are finely-tuned
when
we notice the noticing.
A
petal falls in Argentina,
stirring
the air into a ripple
becoming
a breeze that causes
the
wind to move an ocean
and
bring forth rain in Burma
on
a man who needs cleansing
from
the grief of a buried wife.
I
have met you,
and
you have met me.
Is
that not wondrous
in
such a far-flung galaxy?
~William Hammett
Site Map
It lives in a paperback,
the
older the better,
with
yellowed pages
brown
at the edge.
It’s
there that Mason,
Marlowe,
and Spade
throw
on trench coats
in
the middle of the night
to
track down a lead,
put
a tail on a snitch.
A
gunshot rings out
in
the night, a lick
of
hot yellow flame
disappearing
into an alley.
There
are cocktails
in
a fancy lounge,
a
conversation
with
a fat man,
maybe
a tryst
with
the dame
after
she’s given over
the
stolen goods.
I
look up from the page,
hoping
the curious case
will
never end.
That’s
the nature
of
deep-down sleuthing,
of
solving a mystery.
That’s
life.
~William Hammett
Site Map
Bethlehem recedes from memory.
The
supernova that exploded
above
serene nativity silence
has
mysteriously disappeared.
Only
familiar constellations
now
wheel the black savior sky.
The
birth of peace and love
on
a bed of dry yellow straw
is
about to become yesterday’s news.
Knees
bent in adoration
at
hidden midnight mass,
heads
tilted upwards in longing
to
hear the highest hosanna,
have
fled the candlelight,
the
holly, the choir, the pews.
The
manger has been replaced
by
a carnival canvas tent,
faded
red letters on the smelly dun.
Wild
Bob’s Fireworks
is
open for a limited run.
Cherry
bombs, rockets, and red ringers,
supernovas
wrapped in plastic,
can
be ignited by striking a match
on
a streetwalker's sandpaper face.
An
open bar sits on every corner.
Sparkling
wine and bourbon flow into gutters,
the
Nile red with a baby’s blood,
the
Fertile Crescent just a patch of weeds.
The
ball drops ten, the ball drops nine.
The
crowd in Times Square
freezes
like an amoeba caught on a slide,
a
cold crazy sea, a screaming mob.
The
ball drops two, the ball drops one.
Christmas
tree lots have disappeared.
The
gunpowder revolt has begun.
~William Hammett
Site Map
