Monday, April 10, 2017




pelts & feathers
dead things
o my god
the thunder
says: you lit
me up then you
left me alone in the dark
or how you cannot remember
how the sea took you from shore
the dead in the streets of your heaven
suddenly underwater sign this with red seeds
with the leathery face of a madman aged in a day
the thin men in their gray mourning jackets
backs like wings of sullen angels
he did not want this distance
(but the distance knew)
the wheels turn
until only
the wisdom
of invisible light
reveals the stain of
having been the blood

removed without a longing

©2017  “pelts” Richard Lance Scow Williams
All Rights Reserved


a sea side carnival

the gaudy against the grey

no one on the boardwalk save

a few lonely ghosts—shadows hunched—

hurrying to appointments more mundane than sinister

all the rides locked tight—the barker’s voice replaced by gull’s cry

inside the tunnels the ghouls & zombies wait for their electric trip

no screams no giggles no nervous laughter to reward a patience

of plastic steel enamel paint the peeling of their cause

we imagine murder rape assault on body & soul

but no teenage fright fest hero today—worse—

a distance—a foreboding emptiness

the waves a hundred yards away

relentlessly pulled back

©2017 CARNIVAL Richard Lance Scow Williams
All Rights Reserved


tortoises bleeding

eggs calcified


reports on

her exotic


how to


the wild

inside a cage

without damaging

what makes the wild wild

you don’t—you adapt

you make excuses

you wince & say

this is not

the end

& you act

as if you are listening

to a voice that is so familiar

but you have heard it so often

that when the world ends

it is like you never knew

the tortoise crossing

that finish line

the hare long

given up

for dead

falling falling

into a boiling pot

black iron deep & vast

it does not matter the stars

for at that distance they are already asleep

©2017 Tortoises Richard Lance Scow Williams
All Rights Reserved

Sparkle Pony

Sparkle Pony was the name of a one-woman folk singer in the TV series Portlandia

those episodes were excruciating to watch in that they hewed close to the truth

i think of Antonio Salieri as portrayed in the movie Amadeus

of talent & near talent & no talent but ambition

an ambition to be seen as beloved

in & thru all time all space

you matter you glitter

your life is as wide

as you imagine

the depth of

all that is

fairy dust



magic princesses

knights in shining armor

deafening applause never ending

your name writ larger than Ozymandias

o ghosts of the nameless tell me you are

like blooms of stars to offer my small ego your coat

let me burn with you in the eternity of galaxies yet born

Sparkle Pony parades of countless knights & innumerable princesses

what matter the nature of a a burning truth

burn with me like time itself

burn burn Sparkle Pony

©2017 Sparkle Pony Richard Lance Scow Williams
All Rights Reserved


many can wound

do wound &

pick at

the scars

& you wince

wondering what

mercy could harm

the history of abuse

my friend says

we come now

to the end

of such


the world

now suppurating

in wounds too many to count

more than ready to form a weaving of scars

i do not want to look away from it all

i want to rub my scars

& remember

how kind

the flesh

to love

me enough

to remind me

we live in a world

that is always ready to heal

“scar” from Helga©2015, Bite Press,available from Amazon

©2017 SCAR Richard Lance Scow Williams
All Rights Reserved


shoveling ash from the fireplace into a metal bucket to take to the garden & pour it on the frozen ground—pour it or dump or deposit it (to pour seems more sacred)—my father said ash is good for roses (he knew about the growing of roses)—there are still some glowing embers—fist-sized pieces of char—when a human is cremated bits of bone can remain—bone & teeth perhaps & nail—my father’s ashes are in a box on the nightstand next to my mother’s bed—i do not know where we’ll take them & hers when she goes—Arkansas likely—Fouke or Texarkana north off Highway 71 or 82—my father when he would pass his grandfather’s grave (on Hwy. 82) would say, “i’ll smoke a Lucky for you” & turn to me smiling, “LSMFT—Lucky Strike means fine tobacco”

cigarette ash is not as fine as the seasoned oak piƱon pine & cedar
that burns to a dust in our fireplace—bed of ashes still warm twelve
hours later—turning the bucket upside down the mountain winds
carry a cloud of the dusty ash north past the wooden garden gate—some ash still clings to my boots as i walk back thru the snow to fill the metal bucket again

Richard Lance Scow Williams All Rights Reserved


Richard "Ric" Lance Scow Williams was an associate editor for The Austin Chronicle from 1988-2012. In 2007, his, the secret book of god was chosen by Robert Bonazzi of the San Antonio Express-News as "The Best Book of Poetry by a Poet Living in Texas." He lives in Glorieta, New Mexico, with his wife, astrologer Helga Scow Williams, and two cats, Bat and Mouse. His latest books are Helga (2015) and Jealousy Cured: Cancer & Other Invisible Matters (2016), both from Bite Press. His collaborations with David Jewell are and their latest 52 Pickup: Last Word/First Word: Volume 2 (2017), both also from Bite Press.

For Book Titles On Amazon

Helga, Bite Press, 2015

Last Word/ First Word: Volume 1 BitePress, 2015

Jealousy Cured: Cancer & Other Invisible Matters Bite Press, 2016

secret book of god, 2007