Cole W. Williams: two poems
The Weight of Words
Words used to have weight.
you dreamt, pondered, philosophized
then etched your words into eternity
on stone, with stone, let it be known:
These are my words!
Heavy.
Words too heavy to throw more than a couple meters from your own feet.
Words used to be cherished.
calligraphy in hand, slow pronouncement, acclaim for the
perfect word for that subtle emotion,
does this language possess it,
search the world over:
That perfect word!
More than bread. One signed their name in blood.
~
A chic memo came about, bouncing off the geometric points of shoulder pads and women in the workplace, 1980’s an alley-oop into the technological generation, facsimile and the Bbbbrrrrrriing! of space-aged typewriters and telephones. Words started to move fast,
we grew hasty with words.
can we condense that? jealous of Morse code and
cutting corners for the monster of time, we craved to
slash more words
palm pilot, secretary, post-it:
Words started to run along the ground.
Inspired by the Wright Brothers, words began to fly.
A magician, the devil, comes along unfolding hands and throws
the world’s words into the atmosphere, whalla!
words have lost all weight,
when one can call upon the
beasts of the world from their fingertips:
A mother and daughter share a uterus, the philosophy of Mengzi in three minutes, you won’t believe who Gene Wilder’s daughter is, in search of a parallel universe?
What is gained,
What is lost,
by the transmission of Story Time?
The weight of words is now none,
and everyone, a poet.
A master of fates, an identity in space,
hypermobility,
a meme a gif a simple bird song.
If the sun was to brilliantly shine golden,
borrowed from the November leaves and
scintillating mist, would you borrow that too?
This Morning, A Hundred Years Ago
This morning was a
hundred years ago,
could I ever recall the sweet
‘scape of pine, linen and promise?
But I gave birth to a
hungry blackbird,
like the small gray tuft of baby loon
we saw in the misty morning water—
nagging at its mother until fed,
I too look back at my tracks
and see new tread.
Stacking throughout the day,
worn out and withered by
imminence,
when we finally meet again
you remind me of what I said,
find her in your dreams tonight,
this morning is dead.
Published in WINK: Writers in the Know, issue 1