Poetry by Richard C. Williams

 

 

Grounded

i.

Grounded: she meanders,
embraces the blue fire once loathed.

I will not call for her, not anymore,
she is too far-gone; a speck.

ii.

I woke to the ear-hiss of snakes,
their razor tongues spitting gossip.

Alone again, I scoured the thick
of jungle-green, swung on treetop strands

until my palms frayed to the bone
and I wept in our most secret swags.

iii.

I called for her, straggled the fiery
overlay of a pain-curling earth.

I called for her until my throat
burned with the echo of her name.

There, she braided limbs and tongues
with those we once mocked.

Like them, her hair had ignited,
a wild mane of fiery waves, eyes red.

iv.

Is this grief my only trustworthy
relic, the silver badge on my lapel?

I will not call, but turn my eyes
to the clash of fire, her naked back.

You won't catch me wishing
on stars, molding my palms to steeples

for this is the way of the jointed;
never one, always severed

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Richard C Williams currently resides in NYC. He is a graphics/web designer, and editor
of the stylish literary journal, Pierian Springs. His latest publications include, or are forthcoming in the following: Artemis Journal, Comrades, Snow Monkey, Niederngasse, Red River Review, 3rd Muse, TRYST, Mentress Moon, among others.