Author: William Farragher

This Way to Blank

Having blown out ninety five candles
On the way to Blank,
I wonder why the celebrations.
In no way responsible for initiating the journey,
Arriving from the inner dark
Tiny, nude, hugnry and terrified.
Unable to rise, sit, walk, talk, reason,
Nor survive unassisted,
We bravely head for our ultimate dust.

An orbit later the anniversary of our entrance
Is held, lighted by a single flame.
From that moment ’til the scythe harvests us,
We move from “I’ll live forever” to pondering:
Why the celbrations
andWhat lies beyond the Blank?
All the while
Trying to tread
In the prints ofa humble Galilean

William Farragher

“Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang”

Black arms and fingers reaching to the blue,
Bleak silhouettes of former forest green.
Their choresters flown to warmer, humid climes,
Now silence reigns where summer hymns of praise
Were raised by cardinals, wrens and finches gold
Nestled in those arms’ and fingers’ strong embrace.
These “bare ruined choirs” will in the Spring leaf out and
Echo to those lovely feathered songsters once again.
These reassuring returns endure.
“It’s going to come out all right – do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass – they know.
They get along – and we’ll get along.”

–William Farragher

Words of a Feather

I found a feather
At the foot of a sheer face
Dappled
Like blueberries
In a muffin half.
Was my sleek find
Lost when its cliffdweller,
Driven home by the voice
Of a cumulus cloud,
Fell afowl of a needle eyed hawk

-William Farragher-