Author/Poet/Philosopher, Eugene Williams lives in Escondido, California Where he enjoys a leisurely life at times watching the world go by and dreaming about things past and future. Single with two wonderful grown daughters and four grandchildren, two boys and two girls. Youngest daughter Emily Grace lives in Illinois, with his two grandsons. And his oldest daughter lives in Iowa with his two granddaughters. Currently, I am working on writing my sixth book, and I have eight short stories-Collective poems all on Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble Nook. When not writing a fictional world, or short humor stories, or poetry, I, by being a member of the Order of Templi Philosphus a group of persons dedicating their lives to preserving ancient Philosophical principles, for the betterment of mankind, this has opened a whole new world of intellectual ideas for me. My hobby with-in this hobby, is spending time on the lake not far from my home, catching Blue gills, Trout, and Bass contemplating how they will taste grilled.
Shelley My Dear Shelley Shelley was never one for long goodbyes and Poe bored me so. And yet I stand here pretending as if I were an actor a normal soul how much I’ll never know, so comforting is this self-control. I walked out on Bleaker Street - Piccadilly merchant abound with their draped good tidings and how do you do, how do you do indeed how it made me pucker my brow. I returned to my Summer Hill Flat poured a tea and tossed my Brown & Hatfield shirt a side bear chest and proud. I remember yes, I do, the bell rang and I stood a fool wearing a frown, Brown &Hatfield no were to be found. Shelley had drowned; my poor Shelley upon the shore, An Italian shore burned fisted rage no more Shelley, Shelley had burned. I could hear St, Marks bells off in the distant fog their god awful tone a mournful sound but I shat not shed a tear for Shelley my dear Shelley has burned. Quite is the keep of somber this heap of toil and trusted memories, Shelley I shall know no more, rusted painted metal my bedpost shall lay still restlessness of thought from the poets still voice- haunts my nights haunt me no more. Queer this night my heart stands still. Oh, Shelley I repeat your words, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms, fresh fragrance! Oh, that God, Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, who now, Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels No proud exemption in the blighting curse He bears, over the world wanders forever, I withdrew in careworn conclusion, trembling teacup in hand, as the lonely Postman note lay untouched by my tempered scan. Haunted by words that I shed a tear oh my poor Shelley ill know no more. Is this the summer of my discontent my frosted pain, my shame, where edelweiss and morning glory never do, bloom and I the happy groom? Shelley is gone long live Shelley, edelweiss peddles gathered in her hair, come spring and a child hood dare. I have married the object of your doom, me poor Shelley your hearts groom. Brown & Hatfield pressed it all seems so neat, but incomplete, night after night the bell does ring, and the lonely postman leaves another charred letter at my feet.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Reflections of Hope (13/03/2017)
The Goose (11/03/2017)
The Victim (11/03/2017)
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