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Welcome to my home page. Poetry is powerful. It outlives civilizations. This page celebrates a small corner of a vast subject. As a teacher of creative writing and poetry, reader, writer, and musician, I have witnessed the transforming power of poetry and music in my life and in the lives of others. In that way, poetry and music retain some of the ancient magic and mystery with which we are perennially fascinated. My Haiku have been published around the world. ~ Thom Williams |
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Below are a few examples of my fascination: |
next to the scarecrow and wondering if this is the right place to declare my secret love I suppose anything can happen in this world where wind in the leaves sounds like rain late winter-- the change in my pocket makes a cold sound willow's green in my mind's eye is still green sweeping the garage I hear the songbirds where I am not stray cat to you I give the autumn rain Haiku review by H.F. Noyes |
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Jonah loved making soup. It was the favorite meal at the homeless shelter and the men queued up in ragged coats, smelling like the street for their chance to get something warm. Always, the street people were hit hard by a freezing snap, and the passage through early December this year was made harder by temperatures nearly twenty degrees below the appropriate seasonal average. The cold had locked on after Thanksgiving and its grip took the water to freezing nearly every night. Jonah saw more bodies seeking help than ever before. He saw the migration from darkened doorways and concrete corners. His soup was popular and he felt immense satisfaction seeing the hundred plus bodies hypnotically swaying over his latest creation.
The soups varied with the availability of ingredients. The mainstay was vegetable, when the produce was abundant. It was hearty mix of thick potato chunks, carrots and greens. The giant crocks hummed like turbines under his control and he carefully, lovingly placed a number of bay leaves in each; bay leaves he would just as carefully retrieve upon completion. Jonah, in his singular way protected his population. Choking on life was everyone's fate, he philosophized, but choking on a bay leaf could be prevented.
Andre burst in through the back door of the shelter with something on his mind. "Mr. Jonah, you
got to come out. The King is crazy again!" The King was a middle aged black man who lived in a forsaken alleyway near the shelter. He stood balefully in the shadows of the darkest part, and if anyone happened upon him, he would announce in a deep and chilling tone that he was the "King of the Alley." He had been known to physically accost unlucky strangers, but usually without significant harm, except for the psychological trauma. The King was also known to throw tantrums during which he threw whatever happened to be at hand, or he might chase or harass passing vehicles. He had been nearly killed by an unsympathetic dog catcher whose truck the King had beaten, then had leapt upon for an impromptu ride. The dog catcher swerved sharply and the King was catapulted into some mailboxes and a lamppost. On that occasion, Jonah and Andre carried the fractured monarch two blocks to a free clinic where he was set and patched. Even then, the King insisted on being deposited back in his alley; he avoided the shelter he did not rule. Jonah left the kitchen, stopping to turn off the flames of his ancient stove. He ran outside to find the King had broken into the back of a stopped, piano moving truck and was inside banging on the piano. He pummeled the keyboard with his fists and was growling and snapping to the cacophony. Two overalled piano movers stood mouths agape.
"Hey, do you know this freak?" Cigar nearly falling from mouth. " Tell him to get the hell out of the truck. This beats all I ever seen."
"Maybe he's a dope fiend. We should call the cops, Louie." No cigar.
"Police won't be necessary, Gentleman." Jonah, assisted by Andre climbed up and into the back of the truck. The King was wired, "singing" as well as "playing," but as Jonah approached him, Jonah noticed that the performance had a poignancy, an urgency that was remarkable. They put their hands on the King's arms to lead him away.
"Get that loony out of here! We're blocking traffic." Cigar was getting impatient.
The King was singing and spitting, frothing and reaching for the piano keys for one last bang with his trembling fist. Andre, Jonah and the King were a tangle of arms and wills, but eventually his royal highness was forced out of the truck. He fell hard to the street, hissing at the two piano movers who stepped around him shaking their heads at the irrationality of the whole episode. A few gridlocked cars behind the scene leaned on their horns. Curses exploded from rolled down windows and mingled with the clouds of condensed exhaust.
The King sprang up awkwardly and ran back toward his alley. He darted between the obstacles and disappeared, while Andre and Jonah were left blocking traffic. They walked to the alley, and thirty yards back the King was standing erect, his usual position, in his royal, sagging doorway. Jonah stretched close just to see what was happening. The King was still softly singing and spitting.
The next hours passed without incident. Jonah prepared the ingredients for his favorite soup--cream of mushroom. The mushrooms were fresh, brought from the Italian Market that morning by Danny Dallesandro, a good boy, who brought good vegetables to the shelter and amused everyone by singing a hybrid gospel song.
"Jonah fit the battle of Jericho. Jonah fit the battle of Jericho and died in the belly of the whale"
On the last line he would lift his arms to indicate the inside of the shelter. The playful gesture was not lost on Jonah. He enjoyed Danny's authenticity and joviality.
Today, he was especially enjoying the mushrooms Danny had delivered. They were husky button types, gray on the outside, but white as winter inside. His knife felt relaxed in his hand, as he sliced them into thick slices. He sautéed them lightly in several large, iron pans. The sautéeing onion and celery exhaled large clouds of fragrant steam.
Jonah felt like a wizard conjuring life from death. Residents of the shelter thought they dreamed that a giant bird descended in the kitchen; that its wings smelled like childhood and warmer, fading rooms. The soup stock was moving in a rolling boil, as Jonah added the remaining ingredients. Finally, three giant soup pots were covered and ready to simmer. Jonah wanted to use the rest of the afternoon to regroup. The cold morning had crept into the corners of the shelter and the outside adventure with the "King" had chilled Jonah to the bone. He as looking forward to some coffee and escape in the morning paper. His time lost in the turning pages of quickly passing tempests was his escape from the shelter.
A woman, simply known as "The Flower" by all the shelter denizens, drifted over to the empty table where Jonah was reading. Her old hands shook, as she held out a piece of paper for Jonah to see. It was a government document and she did not have the vaguest idea what it said. Jonah realized he had never heard her speak. She wasn't speaking now. Her eyes were sclerotic, but still searching his.
Jonah read the Department of Public Assistance document and saw that it needed a signature. He saw "The Flower's" name at the top. Her address appeared to be some kind of half-way house in another part of the city. Jonah folded the document, put it in his back pocket and resolved to sign her name for her and mail it later. He wondered if " The Flower" ever saw any of the money from Public Assistance, or if it just evaporated into the black hole of the half-way house and its shadowy economy and changing cast of characters.
He patted "The Flower" on the shoulder and helped her back to a seat and a warm, fresh cup of coffee, all without speaking a single word. As he went back to his paper, she extended her
shaking hand in gratitude. He watched it, and it seemed to be riding the minimal air currents of the shelter. An hour passed. Jonah nodded off into a very light sleep. His head hung gently over the paper; his hand was poised to turn the next page. It did not seem to Jonah that he slept. He felt the air being pulled into his lungs. Photographs from the newspaper were his thoughts, or he dreamed them. In his half-sleep, he saw a long line of refugees, winding back to a mountainous horizon. He gasped slightly, bringing himself closer to waking. His mind pictured the mayor of the city, standing in mourning at a grave site. Falling deeper, he heard the mayor saying, "This great city mourns for itself, repents its violence." Now quite asleep, he saw the vast ocean rolling. He came back to consciousness dreaming that he was under a tree in a cold wind. Jonah regarded the usual shelter afternoon winding down to evening. A few sleeping faces breathed heavily.
The soup was another person in the room, all earthy and aromatic. Outside the doors, the city noises were usual-- squealing of brake linings, the odd siren, syncopated car horns and, today, no gunshots.
Finally, it was time to add the cream and milk to the soup. Jonah saw evening coming early and dark through the window. A speeding police car, lights whirling, blew by. He had scarcely a thought in his head going to his walk-in refrigerator. The cold made him shudder, and he picked up the large plastic jug of milk and the old fashioned bottle of cream. Jonah carried them to the cutting board by the great, hissing soup cauldrons.
Three loud knocks, the sound of someone beating a fist on the locked door, rang from the front of the shelter.
At first, Jonah had no response. He was deep in his own mind planning the remaining steps on his cream of mushroom master work. Three angrier knocks, louder.
The shelter dwellers moved away from the sound the way a herd of gazelle would at an impending lion. Jonah instinctively walked toward the disturbance the same way he had a thousand times down in the great belly of the city monster. The knocks came again as Jonah listened to see what was happening. He came to the snap conclusion, maybe gallows intuition, that he must open the door or some catastrophe was about to befall the shelter world.
With all the feigned habitualness he could pretend, Jonah offered, "Alright. Wait just a minute. I'm unlocking. Just a minute." He unsnapped and unbolted the shelter's antique security system. The door swung slowly open, on the gravitational violation of its lack of balance.
A black stream of adolescent boys flowed into the shelter from the black street. The glided right past Jonah. None of the eight even looked up at his eyes. Their black, hooded sweatshirts were a tactical uniform. Certainly no distinguishing details could be identified among them. He saw weapons in every hand. Turquoise bandanas covered their foreheads. They turned in every direction, looking for something.
Jonah knew not to speak. He stood still, as the gang searched the room. They were a model of aggressive efficiency-- a people's police, or death squad. They crawled over the tables, looked under the tables, swung open the closets and were prepared to shoot. One threw open the cellar door, looked back to the ostensible leader who spat out, "Grave!" Four of the strike force stormed the cellar with courageous celerity. Jonah held his breath. No shots were fired. After a short time, the four emerged dragging a whining old man. They deposited him at the feet of the leader as if he were a torn garbage bag. The old man was wheedling, begging, saying he knew nothing, had nothing, was nothing. Apparently his prostrations convinced the leader who took the barrel of the gun away from the old man's temple.
The leader looked right through Jonah to the stairs which accessed the shelter's second floor. He growled,
"Deuce," and the four shot away and up the steps. So far, Jonah had maintained a judicious silence. He sensed the invaders were on business and were extremely focused on the task at hand. While the upstairs was being searched, two of the gang investigated the kitchen area. One even lifted the lids on all three giant soup pots. Jonah, strangely, had to hold himself in check hardest at that moment. He wanted to defend the soup-- certainly a vainglorious outburst which could have cost him everything. No, so far the turquoise bandanas had not been malicious or frivolous. Their work was methodical, detached, but potentially murderous, and especially, not to be interrupted.
The scouts returned from the second floor, and without a word, the small band flowed back out toward the front door. A woman who had been cowering against the wall leapt out and grabbed the arm of the leader.
"Why?" She was crying. "Why you got to do this? You burnin' our world down. You just a baby. Why?"
"I'm dead already." Came the direct response.
Then, the boys were gone. They darted, slid, disappeared down the street into another cold night. The shelter door banged shut. This was the time for Jonah to move. He sped to the locks and bolts and fought to secure the entrance. His heart banged and his head spun. The angel of death had passed, too closely.
Jonah walked back through the shelter's microcosmic war zone. The few, disenfranchised shelter citizens were reeling, crying. One man operated in stop time and was still shuddering from the threat. The soup needed attention. Intense, pressurized clouds of steam were forming above the cauldrons. The soup could be saved. It had lost some liquid weight during the overboil of the last minutes, but Jonah calmly poured in soup stock reinforcements. He hastened to pour the milk and cream in to the puffing pots. Jonah began stirring the three pots, juggling the two-foot wooden spoon, moving dexterously between them. He lowered his head over each cloudy cauldron. He drew the boil slowly, making sure the bottoms weren't burning. Outside the shelter, sounds of alarms, sirens and long, eerie silences were the night.
The first bubbles started to come, first shyly, then with more insistence. Jonah was mesmerized, staring into the soup. He loved this part of the cooking. He took particular pride in his patience, the way he waited for the perfect consistency. When Jonah ladled out the finished product, he knew it was absolute. The shaken shelter residents received it gratefully. They hardly realized it was the only perfect thing in the whole city.
The Obsidian Compact Disc cdbaby.com/thomwilliams
Obsidian Music & Lyrics: Thom Williams In between the darkness and the street Night is falling everywhere You'd best believe A thousand lies dressed up as the night Variations never ending Caravanserai Going out into the lights Never caught in traffic Outside the great design You will find The darkness and the street Obsidian The end of time I don't think Will look like this In the sunset fading Into the urban wilderness Going up the canyon where the towers are high Forty floors ascending out to the other side Where you'll find The darkness and the street Obsidian Obsidian Thom Williams: Vocal, Keyboards J.R. Develin: Guitar |
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What's Wrong with the World? Music & Lyrics: Thom Williams What's wrong with the world? What's wrong with the rain? It's stripping the trees What's wrong with the breeze? What's wrong with the sun? What's wrong with the girl? Where has she gone to? What's Wrong with the World? What's wrong with me? I don't know It won't go What's wrong? What's wrong with the sea? What's wrong with the past? Everything we're learning Is it gonna last? What's wrong with the man? What's wrong with the child? What manner of secrets Were you expecting to find? What's wrong with me? I don't know It won't go What's wrong? What's wrong with the world? What's wrong with the rain? What's wrong with the girl? What's wrong with my brain? Thom Williams: Vocals, Guitar, Bass J.R. Develin: Guitars |
Grace Lyrics: Janan Platt & Music: Thom Williams In the bird is a sky From the sky a view In the mind grew a vision Think it was you Your eye on the earth In the water a song And a fish in the moonlight All season long Your star cools to stone The stone is your face But in the sky grew a voice Was it grace? It was you in the water A curve in the dawn In a bird is the sky And so on Thom Williams: Vocals, Guitar, Bass J.R. Develin: Guitars |
Medea Lyrics & Music by Thom Williams We tried to wash it away the stain of the America while the radio came in crowded with corruption and sin you stared straight ahead with the voice saying go back to your mother go back to the priest go back to anybody you can find in the east go back to your father if you find him there go back to the air the wind of circumstance blew I never knew what I wanted I never knew what I wanted I never knew what I wanted did you the old rustbelt towns melted as they crumbled away We breathed them through the air conditioning one day half your face lit with neon A sick and an unjust light But fitting for Medea Go back to the preacher Go back to the school Go back to anybody who isn't a fool Go back to your planet if your planet's still there Go back to thin air You stared straight ahead Thom Williams: Keyboards & Vocals Jim Develin: Guitar |
The Ark Lyrics & Music: Thom Williams Two by two the population lined up After forty days of rain Enough was enough Every beast on earth stood in the line Measure for measure according to kind Was it the will of heaven That brought the flood Maybe a misunderstanding By someone above But every path Led to the ark One by one the cities fell Sodom and Gomorrah The citadels And Noah the hero, Noah the fool Sailed out into the tempest Like a wading pool Was it the will of heaven That brought the flood Maybe a misunderstanding By someone above But every path Led to the ark This story of faith has a happing ending If the end of the world doesn't offend you If I said I understood I'd just be pretending like I knew I could Was it the will of heaven That brought the flood Maybe a misunderstanding By someone above But every path Led to the ark Thom Williams: Vocals, Guitars, Bass, Keyboards J.R. Develin: Guitars, Vocals, Percussion Enhancement |
Mercury Run Lyrics: Jennifer Elliott w/Thom Williams & Music: Thom Williams The world is spinning retrograde inside this vibrant dark The planets splatter playfully like children in the sky There are red and yellow sketches that converge into an arc It's easy to get lost here in the funhouse way too far The moon is playing dead tonight inside the Milky Way The universe is just a pebble the gods threw out to sea If the storm don't drag us down we'll live to see the day 'Til then just point the exit sign I know I'll find my way Tonight my nerves are dancing on the mercury run One foot in front of the other 'til the answers come Gonna stay up late to see the face of the sun Tonight my nerves are dancing on the mercury run Maybe then I'll feel like remembering I'll breathe it in and begin to learn to live in the world again Everything I thought I knew has faded with the light The radio waves are hollow; this song is wearing out I thought I knew you better; I even guessed I knew myself But it doesn't matter anyway; the world is built on lies Thom Williams: Vocals, Keyboards, Bass, Guitar J.R. Develin: Guitars, Vocals, Keyboards |
Red Red Sun Lyrics & Music by Thom Williams Red red sun making the girl leave In the decade when the numbers change Making the street turn into night At the waning of the year When whole newspapers blow down the street White white sun presiding Over changes when the year melts down to autumn When all my thoughts, all my thoughts are turning home But home might have a thousand faces Can I carry the warmth of the red red sun? That is the question Thom Williams: Keyboards, Bass, Vocals Jim Develin: Guitar All songs ©2000 Mr. Whatever Records; All rights reserved. Any unauthorized duplication Is a violation of applicable laws. |
Simple Truth
Simple Truth
is all we have
to protect us
from the rain
overhead when we say
neverending
Simple Faith
in ourselves
is expected in
this endless chase
in the world of soul
what we lose
is forever
And from sea to shining sea
complexity
across the open plain
another life again
Simple hope will prevail
if the universe derails
in the end conscience controls
the Karma
From the moon to Babylon
when everything else is gone
we will sing this simple song
about another life again
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