A Little Time by Mike Williams 07/30/2016 @ 1:14 P.M.

A little time to spend, 
Makes a wealthy man. 
A pocket full of change, 
To jungle in the hand. 

What else is it for, 
A little time to spend? 
Once it's gone it's gone, 
Can't get it back again. 

Money is truly ubiquitous, 
And worthless in the end. 
Life's greatest commodity is, 
A little time to spend. 

Point of View by Mike Williams 07/30/2016 @ 8:33 A.M.

A single story premise is incomplete, 
It is a one sided personal purview, 
There is your side and there is my side, 
Then there is another side that's truly true. 

As you think is how you see things, 
And perception becomes your reality too, 
You see the world not as it is, 
But from as you are to misconstrue. 

There are many sides to a story, 
Though some say that there are two, 
I think it is all about perspective, 
From whatever your point of view. 

A Walk With Night by Mike Williams 07/26/2016 @ 9:26 P.M.

Once upon a moonlit eve, 
Night took a walk with me. 
Over a shadowed pathway dim, 
Slowly I kept pace with him. 
Silent was he as the grave, 
As we walked along the pave. 
From his perspective it'd seem, 
A world of mystery and dream. 

Taking leave of me at morn, 
Night lingered 'til the sun was born. 
He swallowed up the stars alight, 
Then in a whisper said, "remember Night!"
I look to find his revealing face, 
Every eve same time and place. 
Awaiting patiently to walk once more, 
And discover what Night has in store. 

Scars by Mike Williams 07/27/2016 @ 8:09 A.M

The scars of my imperfection I would not trade away, 
They're reminders that I'm alive and survived yesterday. 

From all of the things I have been through in the past, 
They've made me change to become who I am at last. 

I look upon them fondly as my life's little guiding stars, 
All the world may ever see are the end result of scars. 

Emotional Storm by Mike Williams 07/25/2016 @ 3:38 A.M.

Furrowing of the brows like storm shutters slapping closed,
The wind whistles as the breath flairs from her nose,
Her eyes begin to yellow of hatred, anger, and flame,
Like a force of nature she clouds up and spits out rain.

Her words sharpen against my flesh as if flying debris,
I'm shaken to my core and stripped bare as tree leaves,
A flash of tongue, another strike, then the eye of the storm,
A moment of silence to reflect, wishing I was never born.

The house lay in wreckage as the frame barely stands,
And I in shock, paralyzed, as her face passes again,
A wall of fury whips around and violent droplets beat down,
The house that love built comes crashing to the ground.

Dark Waters by Mike Williams 07/24/2016 @ 8:47 P.M.

Dark waters run deep beneath the appearence of their still, 
Calm upon the surface but the undercurrent can easily kill. 

You say a word that wounds me and I grin in silent surprise, 
Holding back tears that long to flow in private behind my eyes. 

You hear me speak or pay no attention to my voice on the phone, 
And yet you think you know me because I sound the same alone. 

I have long hidden my innermost side and my secret shy fragility, 
And dare not show my deeper truth for the shallow you see. 

Thirty sleeping pills later I awake and sound cheerfull when you call, 
I put on a brave face knowing dark waters run deep beneath it all. 

Where The Rain Lilies Lie by Mike Williams 07/24/2016 @ 9:37 A.M.

Beyond the edge of parched grass a patch of surprise came, 
A glimpse of pink perfection I see arise after midsummer rain. 
Lilies wave and smile in the sunshine where none were before, 
And happiness takes shape in my heart I thought void in store. 

The storm has passed since yesterday over a seeming baren field, 
A twist of life left behind in its sudden traces sweetly yield. 
Strange to think that only a day ago I had not a hope or sigh. 
And feelings change surprisingly as where Rain Lilies now lie. 

The Point of No Return by Mike Williams 07/24/2016 @ 5:47 A.M.

A leafshed of emotions come before the winter chill, 
Though spring will sprout life again I doubt we ever will. 

Before the first icy breath of air between us in the frost, 
We can't get back or hold onto something that is lost. 

In front of us something lay sprawled out like a corpse, 
The point of no return where love died numb without remorse. 

The Game of Life by Mike Williams 07/06/2016 @ 9:58 A.M.

I'm overweight and I'm over fourty, 
And my hair on top is slightly thinning. 
You can barely tell apart my tail end, 
From the other side of my beginning. 

Round is a shape and I don't mind, 
All of my lusciousness someone will love.
Nature is making my eyes go blind, 
But my heart sees better come to think of.

Gravity weighs me down from below, 
My skin is stretching and starting to sag. 
It's all right with me and I feel just the same, 
Even if I end up looking like a crumpled bag. 

I find humor in holding on to vanity, 
Outwardly and inwardly I continue to change. 
For richer or poorer and better or worse, 
Living and growing is the point of life's game. 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Mike Williams 02/11/2016 @ 9:21 A.M.

The old Dutch settlement Tarry Town, 
where wild imaginings run rapidly abound. 
A secluded glen called Sleepy Hollow, 
with entrancing atmosphere and lazy shallow. 

In that drowsy small town distills; 
the woodpecker taps, the quail trills. 
Slumbering minds into the languid gleam, 
the dewy nacht of distant dream. 

The hypnotic vapors of superstition thrive,
where legends and stories continually survive. 
Entered there in a covetous pedagogue, 
a crane like figure named Ichabod. 

The itenerant teacher had little worth, 
passed among the community to berth. 
When his green eyes glassened aspired, 
the coquette daughter of the squire. 

An unlikely suiter indeed was he, 
with appendages dangling out of sleeve. 
Narrow, and exceedingly lank, and tall; 
gigantic ears, hooked nose above all. 

The lovely Katrina had another's eye, 
but Ichabod cunningly continued to try. 
He lured with instruction in song, 
steadfast in opposition against rowdy Brom. 

Spurned was Brom Bones by competition,
he pranked and played upon superstition.
An intimidating strong man was he, 
using boorish waggery to thwart rivalry. 

Ichabod's insatiable appetites pressed him on; 
the round, red, rosy apple obreption. 
To capture and win Katrina's hand, 
and her father Baltus' wealthy land. 

Brom enlisted his rough rider gang, 
they harried Ichabod's hitherto peaceful domain. 
The schoolhouse was turned over afright, 
and Ichabod began fearing the night. 

Dark forces at work Ichabod thought, 
grieving over what the supernatural wrought. 
Shadows and spooks crept in mind, 
and further hauntings persisted over time. 

One autumn day a letter came, 
the squire invited Ichabod by name. 
A party and dance to attend, 
another chance with Katrina once again. 

Dressed his finest that splendid hour, 
borrowing the old Dutchman's horse Gunpowder. 
The school master rode far afield, 
toward the matrimonial objective he concealed. 

Brom Bones atop his Daredevil steed, 
charged the party in thundering speed. 
Broad shouldered frame and blackened curl, 
to persue his long awaited girl. 

The house filled with scrubbed farmers, 
their wives, washed sons and daughters. 
The tables were topped to treat, 
lavished many wonderous things to eat. 

Music filled the rooms with cheer, 
Ichabod and Katrina danced by candleier. 
As time passes on and stories too, 
the credulous pedagogue heard something new. 

Tales of a headless Hessian Jäger, 
burried unmarked by the Pocantio river. 
The old stone church still stands, 
upon Fredrick Philipse The First's lands. 

He fought in the revolutionary war; 
his body found, but nothing more. 
Upon the field his shattered head remains, 
during the battle of White Plains. 

His comrads hastily buried him away, 
the old Dutch cemetery he lay. 
Each night arises a malevolent apparition,
a headless horseman weilding his falchion. 

Just north of the retaining wall, 
his head decapitated by a cannonball. 
Searching for another to claim evermore, 
say the old Dutch descendant's folklore. 

The harvest party takes to end, 
Ichabod leaves early, denied, and crestfallen. 
Tales of legend swimming his head, 
what the farmer's wives had said. 

He wondered aimless the haunted spots, 
consumed in anguish of his thoughts. 
On that deep placid autumn night, 
imagining ghostly noises and horrid fright. 

Passing the lightning-stricken tulip tree, 
haunted by Major Andre's spirit purportedly. 
A cloaked rider appeared his eyes, 
with a head nested between his thighs. 

Desperately goading Ichabod his plow horse, 
he rode across the bridgened course. 
The black rider swiftly in chase, 
hurled the head into Ichabod's face. 

Without Ichabod astride; Gunpowder wondered home, 
over rock and shrub Ichabod thrown. 
Morning came and Ichabod wasn't found, 
and a smashed pumpkin lay aground. 

Ichabod's tricorn remained beside the road,
and the legend was repeatedly told. 
Hans his landlord burned his books, 
gone the pedagogue's peculiarly odd looks. 

Some say the rider was Brom Bones, 
others tell tales that Ichabod roams. 
Housewives say he was spirited away, 
none know with certainty still today. 

Brom and Katrina were soon wed, 
and Ichabod presumed lost his head. 
So ends the telling of haunting sorrow, 
and the legend of Sleepy Hollow. 

By Lantern Light by Mike Williams 07/03/2016 @ 7:20 A.M.

When the hapless eve turns into the ill-fated night,
And weary feet walk longly by the dim lantern light,
Where the moon's face in the black hardly does show,
And the dreaded path casts shadows beneath the latern glow.

A cracking sound of twigs give cause for the soul to stir,
Eyesight grows faint and the imagination begins to blur,
The crunch upon the dry foliage rustles under my every step,
I quicken onward through the dark trail with a little more pep.

A Barred owl flaps his wings vigorously in the top of the tree,
Belting out "who looks at you, who looks at you... ooo" near me,
The haunting call echoes out into the thick air of the night,
As I scurry double time and start to run in a panic of fright.

The clang of the latern as it rocks back and forth in my grasp,
My nerves set on edge as my heart races and I swallow hard and gasp,
I think to myself "too deep into the woods this night I did roam",
Then the clearing appears before me and a vision of home.

I trudge up the grass covered hill toward my familiar little house,
And begin to walk calmly to the doorway quietly as a field mouse,
I blow out the flame of the lamp and place it on the nightstand to stay,
Crawl into my bed safely and leave the memory of woods far away.

Reflections of You by Mike Williams 07/01/2016 @ 10:54 P.M.

I see a glint of moonlight upon a shard of glass, 
A reflection in your eye that is soon to pass, 
And seeing the world not as it is in its truth, 
But as you are inside which becomes your sooth. 

How you say you love me and I long to believe, 
But it is an illusion you love that isn't at all me. 
I am an extension of your own deepest desire, 
A fleeting visage apart from all you aspire. 

Then seeing me the first your desparages cast, 
A thing imagined by you and never ment to last. 
I see only a reflection of moonlight in your eye, 
You can't love me when love is based on a lie. 

Reserving The Right by Mike Williams 07/01/2016 @ 9:40 A.M.

Here I stand less than all that I am, 
Reserving the right to be more if I choose.
And if I should opt for less without protest, 
It is not a matter of win or lose. 

If I decide to strive for something more, 
Or if I should resolve for something less. 
Some days I have the strength to give my all, 
Other days I have no energy to do my best. 

Like a sparkler on the fourth of July, 
I fizzle out and have nothing left to give. 
Don't condemn me for the choices I make, 
I reserve the right to live as I chose to live.