Chicago Bill - Poems and Writings - 1985 to Present

Chicago Bill: E-Poems

Bill is a long time resident of Chicago having lived here since 1971. Though he has been writing for decades, (over 80 magazine pieces in the past 9 years), only in the last few years has he has taken his own work seriously even though others took it seriously long ago.

During the weekday he lives life as a business Internet consultant. His free time, what there is of it, is devoted to photography, writing, his family and walking the lake front when the weather allows, (not necessarily in that order.) A lot has changed in Bill's life since these poems were written - in fact a number of things he wrote about on this page have become day-to-day realities.

More about Bill's hidden vocation at: PhotoOfChicago.com

He can be reached at: poet@firstbiz.com

Autumn Breeze

Wondering, a little
shiver of anxiousness going through me,
from my head down through
fingers... Wondering with
a completely open mind...


Wondering ...feeling a
little guarded from hand to limb but
wanting to peel away the layers that
surround me to be able to say:

"This is me, this is every bit of what I am,
all that I am at this very moment
you see in the Autumn sky and red,
yellow and silver of the turning leaves...

Leaves experienced of spring rains and
summer's beating sun... This is but
what I am...
Cherish me for that, even though
we might not feel the whispering breeze that
shakes the limbs between us... "

Softly... softly, I say these things...

©Chicago Bill
October 1999
Revised Sept 12, 2006
All Rights Reserved

The Garden. . .

The garden you see, has, I guess, become an obcession
with me.


Persistently I pluck each little weed - study the flower that
needs moving an inch one way or another - wonder if that one
needs a little more water. . . 
Ever watching the spectacle in space and time. . .


A Symphony of thousands, they vie for homes in the earth and 
days or weeks to dance brightly in the ever changing light of 
Sun and cool shadows of Moon, to drink deeply gentle rains,
to sway slowly back and forth in soft night summer breezes. . .


A balladic study in dynamic perfection - changes, continuing 
changes in form and line, size and color, the dance of plante, 
wiod, herbs and schrubbe therein.*
All things ministered by Father Sun, overseen by Mother Moon. 
The playground of birds and butterflys, moths and mosquitoes 
fluttering in great delight. . .


A challenge it is - arduous more than can be imagined - living
with a palette of painted creations, transitory and never
the same beautious things for more than a minute or two. . .

A petal falls, it has changed. . .
A bird plucks a twig, it has changed. . . 
A storm coats leaves and flowers with jewelled drops 
so we may enjoy, and ever it is changing. . .


Easier is, everyday greyness. 


Come sink your hands in soil and walk bare footed in mud,
then you might know what it is about, yes, really.
Come do joyfully toil.
Come, sing, sow, plant seeds, paint the glorious canvas 
we play upon and stay upon.
Come, plant your roots deeply in the earth and become one with
your creation, knowing absolutely, where and how you're from.
Come plant and paint and dance and sing with me, 
yes, it might be your only true reality.


*sprouts, weed, herbs and scrubs - middle English


©Chicago Bill
June 1998
revised May 18, 1999
revised July 10, 1998
revised Sept 12, 2006
All rights reserved

Night Thoughts

Drifting on silken sheets of night,
drifting between setting sun and day to be,
drifting in solitary time where hours
become years and years are reduced to
grains of sand and blinkling stars.


Night shadows hide details of life,
reducing form to outline.
Night thoughts expand meaning and
dreams become reality:  
Seas of truth, lies and everything in between.


I lie awake and wonder why. . .


Twenty pass, that's half of life,
pity, we don't know it.
Another twenty go, we barely notice,
but we begin to show it.
And then it's another five and ten 
before we softly ask,
"when will life begin to end?"


© Chicago Bill 1999,
revised Sept 1999
revised Sept 2006
All rights reserved

Thanks for calling. . .

Wondered how Sunday was - knowing that both of us
live our separate lives, lives that we have taken. . .

Knowing that Fridays and Sundays mean different things,
a different time a different place a different feeling,
a different life through different eyes. . .


Knowing what connects us is fragile - that electronic stream;
around the world or next door, a few words in print seen 
but not heard.


A voice that beckons and sooths at the end of a wire. . .

Standing there, you are but Who, Where and When. . .
Standing here I really wonder, just Who are you my Dear,
and where shall we begin?


©1998 Chicago Bill
revised Sept 2006
All Rights Reserved

Thirst

                             I Thirst


                 I thirst for the taste of you . . .


            I thirst for the scent of your perfume . . .


     The gentle promise of skies and heavens and vineyards we have

                             yet to walk . . .


  Who do I want to walk with through the sun lit valleys and sit with


 on chilly nights gazing up at stars proclaiming their version of our promise? 


                              I thirst

©1995 Chicago Bill
All Rights Reserved

Green Glass

> So, you finally guessed, huh?  What took you so long?

When was it? Perhaps sitting across from you at dinner, or
maybe kissing in the doorway of your house, or maybe at the
Opera. . .

Or, perhaps it was the first time I laid eyes on you,
black suited, golden blond hair, silloetted against a sea
green glass at the station, standing straight - waiting 42
years and 216,000 minutes. . .  

There were other people there,
but they were formless - blurs without definition.  
You stood there, owning the building. . .

©1996 Chicago Bill
revised Sept 2006
All Rights Reserved

Quickly Gone

I sit and watch you, and watch the morning come,
your face with it's ruddy glow - the sky with it's salmon hints of Sun.


Night time smiles barely seen in the pale glow of half moon,
Night time sounds uttered with soft conviction now blending 
with the coming day.


You are too quickly gone - Coming back briefly for one last kiss,
too Quickly gone - Only the memories of the night linger on.


Quickly, my Love, all too quickly, the best of Life and Living
pass us by with out a chance of becoming Memories worth having,
without a chance to become a Reason for Being.

All too quickly, this too shall pass, my love, too quickly - so
Be with me for whatever shall be, forgetting the cares of life.


©1998 Chicago Bill - 
written 2/10/97 
revised 3/30/98
revised 9/12/06
All Rights Reserved

Spring Garden Images

Of images: I read this note of yours. . . I read it again and
tried to see if I could place myself within. . . Yes, I
could, and it was very right. . . very real.


Shopping for flowers. . . debating the color scheme, (I concede
on this. . .), choosing a few favorites of my own. . . and I head
straight for the veggies after we decide on the color fundamentals.

Then, I pick out a rose bush. . . a new one to plant in honor of your
first Mother's day. . . 


It's mid May, and you are ripe with child. . .
glowing, growing. . . beautiful beyond belief. . .

We get home. . . you sit on the steps watching and directing as I plant
the flowers. . . you'd help, but bending over is becoming
very tough to do.


You sit each day and watch the plants take hold over the next few
weeks. . . buds swell. . . flowers bloom. . . ribs get sore from the
kicking of very active baby. . . The day comes when you too
blossom forth and sweat and cry and curse the day that I seeded you!

And baby climbs out - ten fingers, ten toes. . . red and wet. . .
gasping, grasping, screaming. . . and wanting to be held to your
breast. . . That too could be a lovely "half-birthday", my love. . . couldn't it?
I think so. . . Nice "Father's Day" too.

We can think about a porch someday. . . to sit on listening to the
yells and talk of children playing at dusk. . .

An image to stay in focus for a long, long time -
What about it, my Love?

Strong images are the prelude to making them happen. . .

©1997 Chicago Bill 
written 5/22/97 
revised 3/25/98
revised Sept 2006
All Rights Reserved

Afternoon Jewels . . .

Afternoon sun recedes in the west. . . Droplets from the sprinkler
coat both dark and light green leaves of flowers, little glimmering 
pearls waiting to be gathered.


I sit here on steps glancing down the street every time I hear
distant sounds joining the sprinklers' rat-a-tat-tat song with
euphonious orchestration.


Minutes go by. . . And minutes turn into hours. . . Each sound and
song holds a promise.


I sit quietly and watch the pearls forming and running down the
leaves, stems and finally hitting the earth. . .
Sun drops. . . Fiery clouds cast their glow turning pearls to
rubies and rubies to sapphires.


A silent wish runs between the hearing of the rat-a-tat-tat and
the seeing of pearls turning to jewels creeping between
rocks and stones of garden wishing to share the rightful song and
proper orchestration of sprinkler and four footed steel beast as it
comes up the street, driver stepping out to sit beside me, watching,
listening and feeling the flow of and the glow of an afternoon
well spent.


Nightfall comes. . . Jewels now rest in black velvet as the
rat-a-tat-tat joins cricket sounds and mummering fans channeling
cooling breezes of the night. . . It is a different song,
different orchestration and different feeling as I touch the
empty spot beside me where you should be.


©August 2, 1997 Chicago Bill
revised Sept 2006
All Rights Reserved
 poet@firstbiz.com

Knowing

Knowing, thinking. . .dragging thoughts from darkened corners. . .

You never really know someone until you have seen them in the worst
of circumstances. . .under the greatest of pressure. . .


You never really know someone who has not climbed a few mountains,
slid into a few valleys, experienced the wildest range of emotions. . .
Any less and you are browsing a book with many blank pages. . .


You never really know someone until you understand their
deepest hopes and fears. . .


Passion, even in its highest form, is not a sacred substitute. . .


Really knowing someone requires time. . .it cannot be rushed even if
your own being begs resolution. . .


Really knowing someone requires totally knowing yourself. . . That too
cannot be rushed. . .


Rushing to judgement is not making a judgement at all but simply
following your heart to whatever abyss it leads you to. . .


And, this is just a small part of knowing. . .


©1997 Chicago Bill - December 4th, 1997,
revised January 12, 16, 22, 1998
All Rights Reserved

Time, History, Images

For those of us who stand
on Ledges near the Edge,

For those of us who walk
The Center line of Time,

For those of us who Live
With History just a Void,

For those of us ever climbing
The "NOW" thin Sliver:

Treasures, Trophys, Tokens,
Need dusting off at times,
Shifts in their meaning are
Measures of passage,
Burn them into your soul.

At points in life,
Breathing becomes
Difficult from
Exhaulted
Peaks,
Impossible from
Black Valleys.

Survival depends on
Fortunate Accidents,
And Finding the Center
of your Existence.

Images of the Life you've led
Burn them Into your Soulful Self
Along each Step you tread,

Guideposts, Signposts always to stay
Symbols of where you've wanted to be,
Markers of a worthwhile life
Standing from now to Infinity.

©1997 Chicago Bill
Written 8/18/97
revised 11/7/97
All Rights Reserved