Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

Posts tagged ‘Bill Hagman’

Birthday Butter – by Will Hagman

fullsizerenderart was disgusting to her

when it wasted materials

that could be used elsewhere

to help the poor or

feed the hungry

or when it lost all

practicality and only

took up space needed

for something more

she realized this while

cutting a stick of butter

and reflected on a film

she saw of Tibetan monks

sculpting butter into

elaborate figures and

designs to celebrate the

birth of Lord Buddha

which made her think

of all the energy spent in

creating the same beauty

to celebrate the birth of

her Lord Jesus Christ

supposedly saviors she

whispered to herself while

cutting the butter into

the flour for a pie crust

putting aside her project

she spied her pill box

she remembered she forgot

and popped open the cell

for the day, spilling the pills

into her cupped palm

the tiniest pill contained

both heaven and hell in

its minute chemical cosmos

but no nirvana was found there

~ Will Hagman

Poet Will Hagman works as a customer service representative in Sioux Falls, SD where he lives with his husband Bob. He has found writing to be therapeutic throughout his life and continues to write poetry as a venue to connect with others and himself. Additionally, Will enjoys gardening and dabbling in various mediums of art.

Guest Editor Ronda Miller is district president of Kansas Authors Club, as well as state VP of the club. She is a Life Coach who works with clients who have lost someone to homicide. Miller enjoys wandering the high plateau region of NW Kansas where the Arikaree Breaks whisper into the sunset and scream into blizzards and t-storms. Her quote, “Poetry is our most natural connection among one another” best exemplifies her belief in poetry. She created poetic forms Loku and Ukol and co authored the documentary The 150 Reride of The Pony Express. Her books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life and MoonStain (Meadowlark Books, May of 2015).

After a Snowless Winter by Patricia Traxler



March blizzard; the late snow covers our world

like amnesia. All day our eyes are drawn to windows,

absorbing the endless swath of white beyond the glass

that holds it apart, pristine, like a painting of what’s real.


I remember when we all were here, how winter warmed

us then. Yes, attrition is a function of time, and we have to

ignore it as far as we can–buy a new address book, forget

the touch that woke our skin, the sweet imperative of meals,

unruly music of children’s voices, words alive in every room.


Sunday wafer on the tongue, absolution, old miracles we still

crave; love, maybe. And before everything, the words that were

to be believed, that gave us something to fear and love and live

up to; nothing left to chance, except everything that would follow.


The world is old now, war still abounds, meaning refuses attachment.

Bulbs stir in the ground, regenerate out of habit, away from the light.

I’m yours, I tell the air. The cold makes its way in then, and for hours

snow deepens across the prairie while frost blinds window glass.


No ideas but in things, he said, and yet the world is clotted with things

and often bereft of ideas. This belated freeze enters the flesh the way

love did–a mercy?–then makes its way into the heart, and stays.

The power to make something necessary, lasting, to place something

new where nothing was–anyone fears the loss of that. And of the need.


Somewhere underground now a river hurries over itself, blind roots

stirring as it passes, earth darkening around souls muted and stilled,

stones smoothening in the passage of time, while above we wait and

wonder: Is this what we were meant for? Who will tell us what was true?

~ Patricia Traxler

Patricia Traxler, a two-time Bunting Poetry Fellow at Radcliffe, is the author of four poetry collections and a novel, and has edited two anthologies of Kansas memories dating from 1910-1975. Her poetry has appeared widely, including in The Nation, The Boston Review, Agni, Ploughshares, Ms. Magazine, The LA Times, and Best American Poetry. She has read or served as resident poet at many universities, including Ohio State, Harvard University, Kansas University, the University of Montana, Utah State, and the University of California San Diego.

Tyler Sheldon is a graduate student in English at Emporia State University. His poems and articles have appeared in Thorny Locust, I-70 Review, Coal City Review, The Dos Passos Review, and in the anthology To The Stars Through Difficulties (a 2013 Kansas Notable Book). Sheldon is an AWP Intro Journals Award nominee and has been featured on Kansas Public Radio.

William Sheldon lives in Hutchinson, Kansas, where he writes and teaches. His work has appeared widely in little magazines and small press anthologies. He has two books, Retrieving Old Bones (Woodley) and Rain Comes Riding (Mammoth), and a chapbook, Into Distant Grass (Oil Hill). He plays bass for the band The Excuses.

Chautauqua by Bill Hagman

Bells tone their time148310_105229442991520_1145583133_n
during the warped elliptical lap

Pulse is abruptly revived
from weeks of stale existence
Heart slapped across the face:

Lungs fill with trees’ exhaust
in crisp, humid draws

Journey quickens to
leave the clasping cold behind
Shoes shuffle through
bleached leaves, grass

~ Bill Hagman

Bill Hagman authors two blogs, in which he shares his life experiences in one and his poetry and digital photography collage artwork in the other: www.pandemoniumcomprehended.blogspot.com

94. To the Stars Through Difficulty: Bill Hagman

A night aviator stirs, leaving a token of its presence.
In that singular feather resides the song of the plains.
When mesozoic vessels were attuned with that hymn,
callow clouds concealed the land from the sky.
Those vessels soon took flight with locust wings and buffalo hides,
and raptors and arachnids, reaching the limit of the high.
They rose with the tribal drums, church bells, and such
beyond the spurring prairie roosters that now clash under a copper dome.
These vessels have come and gone like the shorebirds,
who, on occasion, claim this land as their home.

— Bill Hagman

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