Friday, May 1, 2015

Brass Bell: Bill Waters

Welcome to the May 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Bill Waters

first bird
at daybreak . . .
and then all the rest

neglected field . . .
for no apparent reason

where two trails cross
we stop and listen . . .

and clouds

cracked cement
catches a sunbeam

deserted beach . . .
ocean roars

the woodpecker
across the water

Bay Avenue:
a flock of seagulls
a giggle of girls

gardening —
almost a leaf
the leafhopper

the clink
of the white gate
beside the twisted pine

luncheonette counter . . .
reaching for
her hand

deepening dusk . . .
one by one
the fireflies

peonies —
they rest their heads
in the grass

fitful sleep —
a single bark in the dark
then silence

piles of leaves
mounds of leaves
hills of leaves

the smell of clean laundry
and the huffing breath
of the steam iron

as if to name it
is to know it:
great blue heron

almost sunset . . .
silver ripples
of the mallards

purple clouds
some edged with copper
some edged with gold

sleeping in . . .
little by little
the sun on my face

old-growth forest . . .
chickadees in the trees
break the winter silence

black ice —
shortening my stride
even more

in the greenhouse
and the fragrance of lilies

he faints
in the heat of the sun!
fallen snowman

napping on the sofa —
two curled-up cats
napping on me

in the parking lot —
one bird chirps

book-lover’s bedtime —
I mark my place
with a smaller book

one owl
the whole night through

Bill Waters, a lifelong poet and writer, looks at the world through haiku-colored glasses and likes what he sees. He lives in Pennington, New Jersey, U.S.A., with his wonderful wife and their three amazing cats.