Welcome to Poetry & Prose

cc9dfa49e84fd34a15ed960a15f9af0cWelcome to Poetry & Prose! Here you will discover my collection of poems and short stories.

I like to couple my poems and writing with paintings, photographs, computer modified and generated images.

Note: I do not own any of the images that I use here and strive to give credit where it is due. Only the writing shown here is mine, by my own hand and from my own mind. I hope that you enjoy your visit here and come back often!

Use and/or duplication of this material, excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mike Williams as the original author @ https://mikewilliamspoetry.wordpress.com  with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. I maintain copyright as the original author to all of my work found here.

I prefer to be notified if my material is used in any other form and provided with the appropriate links where it may be found so that I may link it. In short, I’m happy to allow my work to be shared as long as I am given proper credit for it. You may email me directly, or leave a comment on my cantact page.


Humility & Pride by Mike Williams 11/13/2016 @ 9:21 A.M.

Humility & Pride by Mike Williams 11/13/2016 @ 9:21 A.M.

Sing, and a crowd will draw near you;
scream, and none hear what you say.
The pleasing voice may attract attention,
but harsh ones drive men away.
Grattitude, and you are gifted;
gloat, and you rue the day.
A braggart soon finds not a friend enclines,
but kind men’s friends will stay.

Shout, and your words go unheard;
sigh, and the world hears all.
For none hear the cries of the canticleer,
but plug their ears to its morn call.
Boast, and they think you absurd;
brag, and they put up a wall.
The humble voice no man doth fear,
but men delight pride’s fall.

Paper Voices by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 12:07 A.M.

Paper Voices by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 12:07 A.M.

Pen and ink and time to think,
I scrawl upon the blank page.
Words that wink and find their prink,
and lose them all from their cage.

Command the silence to speak,
then give my thoughts flight with wings.
To pluck the barb from life’s pique,
as I write numerous things.

Trope becomes the antidote,
metaphor a medicine.
To fill up the page with hope,
and say to the world listen.

Moved am I by my muses;
they rob me of my choices,
But despite their abuses,
I give them paper voices.

Memory Road by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 9:55 P.M.

Memory Road by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 9:55 P.M.

How can I lay to rest a memory?
I walk alone before the petricore.
The earthen smell of rain and emptiness,
grey shadows encroach this familiar road.

How can I lay to rest a memory?
My fingers bare of the band I once wore.
Still I feel the weight of this heaviness,
abandoned by the arms I used to hold.

How can I lay to rest a memory?
This old pricking pain my heart keeps in store.
A taste of bitter venom ghastliness,
my life’s hope has setted and I grow cold.

How can I lay to rest a memory?
Leave it forgot behind me and want more.
Some simulance of newfound happiness,
and face the world again brazenly bold.

How can I lay to rest a memory?
I walk alone before the petricore.
The earthen smell of rain and emptiness,
grey shadows encroach this familiar road.

Crowded In Screaming Thoughts by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 1:28 P.M.

Crowded In Screaming Thoughts by Mike Williams 11/12/2016 @ 1:28 P.M.

The moon undresses her silver tresses,
behind a frame of clouds changing austere.
Parades make their way in waking pulses,
as the old French Quarter quickens in gear.

When my soul in its truth then confesses,
the pangs of a lonely heart made severe.
Though Mardi Gras paces and progresses,
as it razors, whirls, and bleeds cavalier

The sky wears a brand new gown of darkness,
upon which the spangles of stars appear.
In her beauty she walks without false graces,
then stirs bridal feelings which slowly rear.

Incumbered within my thoughts arises,
a shrill piercing screaming heard closely near.
Distant revelers offer their surprises,
it’s my own haunting inner voice I hear.

I’m not afraid of the dark’s disguises,
nor does night transfix my mood with drear.
Between the crowds come cutting silences,
I’m forced to unmask and face my own fear.

Moments alone find no compromises,
ahead the maddening crowd seems to jeer.
The folly for which it symbolizes,
I feel exposed, naked, and strangely queer.

The Folded Flag by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 9:36 P.M.

The Folded Flag by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 9:36 P.M.

We honor an extinguished life with Taps,
a light has gone out and will burn no more.
The graven speech given in uniform,
as the dead are cleared from a ceasing war.

Guns salute three volleys the fallen brave,
the colorguard address the family.
Condolances expressed by mourners,
the lone casket rests under a canopy.

Chalk white gravemarkers line in even rows,
all of those who have served and gone before.
Old companions lay in their final rest,
a soldier rejoins his platoon once more.

Years have gone by parting our company,
a lonely box of faded pictures I kept.
Reminders of a since forgotten time,
revisited in my dreams as I slept.

Another soldier finally comes home,
ending painfilled memory of passed friends.
I see it clearly and await my time,
there hopefully I’ll find my peaceful ends.

My battles and burdens most can not know,
to be the last one left feels like a crime.
I see the faces and hear their voices too,
all of those men and women in my mind.

I have suffered and endured silently,
finding discomfort among those who brag.
I’ve stood somber by many a friend’s grave,
as mothers cry over the folded flag.

Dark Shadow by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 5:14 P.M.

Dark Shadow by Mike Williams 11/11/2016 @ 5:14 P.M.

The slat house creaks from its plank floors to walls,
cerused with age and many shades of grey.
Johnqills sprout each spring in the old front yard,
planted by a dead woman people say.

A medim tells me her spirit’s there,
gossips swear they’ve seen it roaming about.
I ignored them all and rested my mind,
just town talk that fills a body with doubt.

As I wondered through and looked over the house,
a sign hung outside saying it’s for sale.
The realtor says that “it’s long been empty,”
then he tells me that it’s haunted as well.

“All the house needs is a bucket of paint,
a good dusting and sweeping of the floors.”
I reply and make my offer the same,
when a strong wind rattled open the doors.

“You”ll never make it a night here he says,
nobody ever has before I’m told.”
As we walk around the back and look,
something dark had sprung and lo and behold.

The realtor ran screaming to his car,
I froze in my footsteps then ran behind.
On the house appeared a creeping shadow,
a spirit of the malevolent kind.