Occasional Poet

Have to say I really am only an occasional poet.  I’m not sure I could tell a rhyming couplet from an iambic pentameter, so I only occasionally resort to poetry.  So here are the ones I’m not too ashamed to share.


A walk in the street, what do I see
The homeless, the hungry: the scared, not the free.
For all the what ifs, what could still be
There, but for the grace of God, sits me.

Society’s blind it knows not what to do.
So it walks by, it just won’t see you.
But in its mind it has a phrase too,
There, but for the grace of God, sits who?

So all of you in your big painted houses, your ivory towers
For all of your wealth, your money, your powers,
Please remember, whatever you do,
There, but for the grace of God, sits you.


© Gail B Williams, 2012

The Terrorist

Clothed in black, he waits in back
Sleep slowed target, moves to descend.
One knee-back blow has her on her end.
Steep stair steps, he knows just how.
From a lurking leap, attacks her feet.
Its breakfast time, his right divine.
False love rubs leg, ‘til he gets fed.
Routine now he feeds and loiters.
For her return he reconnoitres.
She’s ready now to depart, cunningly he’ll show his art.
Black legs soon ladder white, and timed just right he’s out of sight,
Afore catch she can, to smack, to scold.
Opening door, she lets him loose.
Toe missing tail as through he shoots.
In open air he sits and waits, wind rippled fur by garden gate.
Where now, he ponders, shall I go, all my mischief to bestow?
Next doors window? Garden row?
Hearing chirps, he does know.
Exploring gardens, frightening a bird,
Then the neighbour’s voice is heard.
She calls her cat, but won’t mind, if this terrorist plods in behind.
The day slept through by warming fire,
Purring louder as the heat’s turned higher.
Mistress back, he hears her call, but can he really face the haul?
Fraidy, what a stupid name, still he answers just the same.
Once she grows hoarse, then he’ll play her game.
Fed again, third time today, he enters lounge in search of play.
She’s in his chair! He can’t approve.
Somehow he’ll have to make her move.
Jumps on shoulder, tugs her hair, now she’s out, he gets his chair.
Stroking wakes him, he won’t resist, rolling over, to bite her wrist.
Night time now, time for sleep.
He trips her over on stairway steep.
On the bed he leaps and snuggles,
Terrorist cat, forgiven and cuddled.

© Gail B Williams, 2012

Would you Adam and Eve it?

This poem was entered into a Swansea and District Writers’ Circle poetry competition in January 2014 and is based on my reaction to seeing the paintings Adam and Eve (two separate paintings) by Barnett Newman.


Would you Adam and Eve it?

Red, then brown, red then purple, vertically in line
Is this meant to be some inspiration divine?
It’s modern art, I know, but I cannot believe
That these are depictions of Adam and Eve

No scene of lovers, hand in hand,
Not even a sight of a DNA strand.
Just lines on canvas, that aren’t even straight.
A part of me sees not of love, but of hate.

Adam in blocks of lines descending
A metaphor for struggles unending?
A representation of life’s stages and loss
Is this how a man shows he is the boss?

Eve’s less complicated just one edge dipped
A male artist failure, feminine nuance ungripped?
Or the banality of life against which woman vies
Until into colourful life the female butterfly flies

Or maybe the best idea I’ve had yet
Is to take what you’ve read and it all to forget
Just look at the pictures and note with your heart
That whatever your reaction, that’s the meaning of art.

© Gail B Williams, 2015

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