Monday, May 27, 2024


The humpback spins, torques, sprays,
breaches the wave-capped skin of ocean,
the skein of rolling foam and blue.

The sky and sea explode unbounded
from the newfound sexual seam that is horizon,
undreamt of in his deepwater philosophy

of pods piloting in hazy cataract.
He is suspended in beatific view,
fixed and freed in transcendental fugue.

I wake within a dream, impressionism’s blur,
to discover the crystal lucidity of sight,
consciousness squared and multiplied by joy.

Suspended above the bustle of a crowded street,
I feel the vibrations of a thousand strings
plucked into harmonies beyond the scales

fallen from my eyes and unknown clefs.
Everything is rhythm ejaculating symphony
as rich and rhyming as any spiral arm

speckled with star stuff in a pinwheel galaxy.
In rare moments, I rise from my skin
to see that this wonderworld is mere illusion.

I am only mind inside a greater mind
observing the frequency of beget, believe, become.
A transparent eyelid blinks to behold

the marvel of behold, I and thou,
before I sink back into the ocean of Adam’s dream
and sing another meandering, migratory song.

~William Hammett

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Monday, May 20, 2024

Bird, Branch, Sky

The bird sits on the black branch
growing into the pearl-gray sky.
Or does the winter sky sit upon the bird,

the branch upon the sky?
This mystical geometry simply appeared
from nature’s morning mind.

The branch splits into finer versions of itself,
fractals that open a door to infinite quest
while the bird spreads its Rorschach wings,

balancing the magnetism of east and west.
But the sky knows only the thoughts of God
and is perhaps the father of this evolving trinity.

The bird suddenly bolts, takes wing
from its temporary still-life perch
as the branch recoils, contemplates, quivers,

clouds now twisting into the strangest of rivers.
What response can be made to these particles-turned-wave?
What can be made of bird, branch, and sky?

The beggar, king, prophet, and seer
can only weep for joy in December’s nave,
can only launch through parted lips a most ecstatic cry.

~William Hammett

Thursday, May 9, 2024


With a gust of wind, the bouquet of flowers
flies from the rear basket of the bicycle.

Minutes later, the man scoops it up
and continues on his way to the park,

where he sits next to a young woman on a bench.
A maple leaf falls from the overhead tree.

They turn, grab, kiss, and laugh
without thought of repercussions down the line.

Years later, they live in a three-story Victorian,
a gaggle of daughters rushing out the door

to ride bicycles in the park and collect spring flowers.
Surely it was all divinely-inspired happenstance,

this blur of joy and color spanning decades,
for there is no such thing as randomness or chance.

~William Hammett

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