The Poetry of William Hammett

Poetry Sites of Interest
Copyright and Publication Information

Friday, May 22, 2026

Francine, Who Plays the Flute

Francine of the meadows and mountains
plays a Western Concert Flute,
long and silver, like a pleasant dream
of a winding stream that never ends
its journey to cleanse the wounds of Earth.
Birds land on the stem of her muse—
students, teachers, session musicians—
before taking flight, carrying musical notes
to tall trees, breezes, oceans, and foreign lands
until Francine has played for the world.
Her breath merges with spiritus mundi,
plants seeds that grow into concept and balm.
They are the flower in Tennyson’s crannied wall,
the grain of sand held in Blake’s mystical palm.
They are this and that, the all in all
born from the parted lips of Francine,
who plays distant galaxies and worlds unseen.

~William Hammett

Site Map

Poetry Sites of Interest

Thursday, May 14, 2026

The Woman Who Visits My Garden

There is nothing outside my window
except distance and fields
on days when my mind is inclined to wander.
Closer to home, there is my yard
and a cottonwood tree and white picket fence
with a gate that is never locked.
And, oh by the way, there is a woman,
a stranger who shows up daily
to weed or plant daisies and marigolds
before she wipes a hand on her apron
and walks away to I know not where
when the light starts to fade.
She is a mystery, a pleasant one
I will not try to solve
now, or in all probability, ever.
She might never return.
Welcome, earth-bound stranger,
woman of the garden and the day.
Stay, for you are beautiful
in your quietness and the lines of your face,
and I like it that way.

~William Hammett

Site Map

Poetry Sites of Interest

Friday, May 8, 2026

The Widow of Madrid

The widow of twenty-four years,
only forty-six and change
despite a coffin holding up the stone,
wears black robes and nunnery veils
as she bakes bread and cakes--
pan dulce, magdalenas, galletas--
and brings them to the market square.
She is kind that way.
In the evening, she sits at an outdoor café,
drinking red wine and eating bread,
her long black hair free of its shroud.
She takes the worthy home to her room,
not passing up lovers when lovers can be had.
To do so would be a sin.
There is ecstasy in the feathered bed
where her husband planted his children
between her slender rolling hips,
a sacrament to honor the many gods
within her all-embracing mind and soul.
Take this Spanish wine and drink.
Such is the taste of her sweet mourning
that extends beyond the afternoon
and is consummated in the holiest of nights.
Such is love that never forgets
but is not afraid of new and brighter lights.

~William Hammett

Site Map