BILL LESLIE

 

 

Talking With God Late At Night

 

God,

you are never going to show me the sign,

are you?

My silent God.

I always must guess

what you’re thinking.

Apparently, certainty is for others,

for me, I just make mistakes.

I lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling,

until, giving up, I get up

and grab my pen,

as though my pitiful musings

amount to a hill of beans.

Strange, isn’t it,

how poets think they know things

that others can’t see?

It’s all a bit silly

this pretend game we play.

God,

won’t you let me rest?

ease my doubts,

let me slip away

to a deep dreamless sleep.

To a new day,

a new man,

certain of my fate!

 

At last the sky starts to lighten,

I can hear the birds

begin to sing.

So, I’ll make another cup of tea

and begin again.

And maybe today is the day

my reluctant God

will begin to speak.

 

Loose Fitting Clothes

 

My doctor asked if I were a poet,

I was suddenly speaking in rhyme,

she said, “Turn your head and cough.”

“No, no” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

listening to my heartbeat,

studying my response,

she said, “what is this strange obsession?”

puzzled by my nonchalance.

a dozen rhymes spill from my pocket,

while searching for spare change.

a little posey, quickly forgotten,

that look in your eye, dark & strange.

 

mote of dust, tick of fluff,

studied with a delicate hand.

lost feather, a seashell, bit of bone,

a boy’s hidden treasure, tiny & grand.

The diagnosis was quick,

though treatment was by degree.

She dashed off the prescription:

the cure was worse than the disease!?

A strange malady has befallen me;

my heart can break one more time!

The surprise was how easy it was,

I should see that as a sign.

She smiled, “Your numbers look fine.”

the good is up, the bad is down,

we’ll see you in a few months’ time.

that is -- if you’re still around.

I gather my things as

reality slides away.

the urgent ding, the world burns,

I stumble back into my day.

I want you to feel my heart one more time

make the tiniest thing grand,

lose myself in this madness,

one more touch of your hand.

One more breath out, and one

more in. Lay your hand

on my chest & just like that

we begin again.

 

Call

 

I tell myself it doesn’t matter,

another silence in the long afternoon.

Count to ten,

Say I’m sorry.

The heater goes tic, tic, tic,

as the day cools down.

It’s time to feed the cat.

I always forget.

Forget to get the good stuff.

The kind he likes.

He looks at me with a question,

I stroke his tail to answer.

Today becomes tomorrow,

Days stretch forward and back again.

We end up where we began,

waiting for your call

in the silence of a long afternoon.

 

BILL LESLIE

 

BILL LESLIE: Bill is a very recently retired Technology professional. He is now hoping to devote himself to writing full-time. He is deeply passionate about writing poetry and learning to be a better poet.  He also plans to devote himself to his long-time other passion: photography. He loves taking photographs of birds and nature, as well as of his large, loving family and their many, many pets. Bill identifies as a woke, non-binary, radical, feminist lesbian; trapped in the body of a Southern white boy. Be forewarned. This is what he believes: Science is Real. Black Lives Matter. No Human is Illegal. Love is Love is Love. Women's Rights are Human Rights. Kindness is Everything. Bill was born in Columbia, SC and has lived in North Carolina for the past 25 years. Attended the University of South Carolina where he studied Media Arts and Film. He dreamed of being a great film director. He finally graduated from the Univ. of Pheonix with a Bachelor of Science in Technology and has worked in that field for many years. He wears his politics on his sleeve. An unapologetic feminist and a proud Progressive; he is fiercely pro-choice, a committed supporter and ally for LGBTQ and civil rights. He is still very much a student learning how to write poetry, but it brings him great joy.