The Poetry of William Hammett

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Monday, February 16, 2026

Praying to the Gods and Saints for Good Weather and Gold

Fishermen cast wide nets for mackerel
and trout, the wide-eyed captives
flipping and smacking in the mesh,
silver and gold coins reflecting
sun scales, rainbow tarnished
and plucked from the novenas and votives
at the four a.m. fisherman’s mass.
Mumbled words disappear in the flames.
Multiplied wafers no longer offer the balm.
Let there be fair weather and calm,
no thunderheads or Satan spawn
to tilt the sea or rock the sailor’s brain.
Let market and monger be paid in full,
the gods appeased, the papal bull
from Peter’s boat absolving the sky of rain.
Let drachmas in the fish’s mouth
pay the temple tax and bribe old Triton
to blow his conch and the anchor weigh.
Are we even now? Am I free to go?
It is time to cast off with spinnaker spin.
The mariners are shrived, the widows grieved
because husbands are lost in the Galilee.
Let us be done with canonized feet
that walk upon the rumpled sheet.
It’s over, gone, and done, this hope
for cloud and coin and copper tin.
The wide-eyed fish and flock are the ones
who are always nailed with the Savior’s sin.

~William Hammett

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Thursday, February 5, 2026

The Titty Bar

The stripes and spots and speckles
of lions, leopards, and tigers
rise and spin and fold under the disco ball,
turn upside down, legs splayed,
delayed by fingers stroking chrome
as the roving lights lick the carousel
with beams on seams of skin-tight silk,
of tawdry fur and feather boas
constricting the neck and nexus
of the gyre, the gyration well-lubricated
with gin and rose oil rhymed, timed
to make the fluid hemispheres revolve
around the son of man who has come
to call this flock to savannah’s trial
in a kingdom where the many mansions
are in the back, red velvet and black lights
ushering in a rapture of Midwest conventioneers
walking the midway between the breast of dawn,
between the gasp and lickety leers
and twilight’s last suckle of a naked gleam.
The ups and downs exist but in a dream.
All are actors, and all who enter here are sprites
who may have given you to slumber for a while.
Stuff the greenbacks into the collection plates,
the order of the garter and the snakes,
and you shall find yourselves at home again,
the wife and kids, asleep, bringing the ship to rights.

~William Hammett

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Friday, January 30, 2026

Fish and Birds and Other Things

The black and white prince
behind the kitschy shrine,
incense and thurible in hand,
falls down the sanctuary steps
and slumps in the red confessional
to hear and absolve his hidden sins.
Lighting candles on the very top shelf,
the physician never seems to heal himself.

It is all well and good

if he's drunk as hell on altar wine,

for no one offends the universe.

Everyone has thrown the first stone.

Everyone has delivered the gut punch

and colored outside of the lines.

Everyone has picked up the serrated blade

and cut the here and now

far too close to the bone.

Let there be saints,

but not ones with robes

or halos or praying hands.

Let them be fish and birds

and other wondrous things

that pirouette like the sun and moon

and grace the air like insect wings.

Let the sacred and the profane

lie in the marriage bed.

Let them become great with child

who revels and dances and always sings

to the wizards and witches who live in the wild.

Let the world stumble its way into holiness

without canon law firing its rumble and roar.

Let there be fish and birds and other things.

~William Hammett

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Friday, January 23, 2026

Hanging from the Belt of Orion

Orion marches through December,
the bear always in front of him
despite a thousand years of pursuit.
It is the way he navigates the years.
I live alone in a cabin in the woods
with a fire, a bed, a stack of books,
and a long oak table and chairs.
It is the way I navigate life.
With a shotgun, I chased away naked St. Francis
because I dislike holy men lacking self-esteem.
The red cardinal speaks to me of philosophy.
He has no theology to speak of
and says God is the tree, the wind, the stream,
only that and no more,
though we have made him in our image
and pursued him for a thousand years.
I am an apprentice of Orion,
hanging from his jeweled belt
while tramping through the snow
in the long, cold, dark night
searching for a scripture only I can write.
It is the way I navigate the stars.

~William Hammett

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Friday, January 16, 2026

The Wind

The wind is everything and nothing.
It blows brown bags down the street
to keep the idea of carrying things
beyond the grasp of an already frazzled woman,
whips the hats off beggars who can ill afford
an affront from the Invisible man, of all people.
It knocks down perfectly good trees,
the schoolyard bully who taunts because he can.
It slams rain into windows like buckshot,
sends floodwater gushing into small towns
filled with Raggedy Ann and Andy people
now too limp to file the insurance forms.

But then, but then . . .

it tousles the hair of a scorned woman

who decides that her lover is an ass after all.

It drives clouds that look like sailing ships

over the schoolyard to fire imaginations

of little men and women who seek the sea

and dreams too tall for their present reach.

It spins the mind of a poet into a sonnet

about zephyrs and sprites and inspiration

blowing off Olympus with power too great

to be tamed by the hands of mortal men

who wish the air to cool fevered brows

and evaporate sweat worked up in the field.

It is a mystery.

It is nowhere to be seen and everywhere to be felt.

It is mistress, god, and sledgehammer

that can slam bones into powder and dust

or caress cheeks and make love to naked skin

bathing in a stream or daring to stand

in a garden like Adam minus sin.

I blink, turn my head, open my mouth,

and my head is full of rushing ether,

all my doors and windows open.

I do not know what soul this might be

or what it does except claim the right

to circle and swirl and hold the world

in its grasp or decide that it should go free.

~William Hammett

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Thursday, January 8, 2026

Half-Lives

The half moon still governs the tides,
still washes the sand and evens the score.

A wink with one eye of two still lures the stranger

on the suburban train, a Venus on the half-shell.

Half a heart still attracts the soulmate

assuming the other half is waiting in the wings.

Half a song from the red breast in the tree

still sings of life and many wanton things.

We live by halves, never grasping the whole.

Long ago, the sons of Adam were instructed to slow the roll.

~William Hammett

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