‘Paradise is Burning’, ‘On the Road to Emerald City’ & ‘Greyscale’

William Weiss is a writer hailing from Pasadena, California. He works with disabled adults to help expand their capabilities and possibilities, and as a musician, he loves the rhythm behind words and the diverse dialog of interpretation poetry brings. You can often find William brooding over a line under his desk, sitting on his desk, on the floor, in a crowded elevator, or really any place that he has a second to think. He is a recently published poet in The Broadkill Review as well as Oprelle Publications, and a semifinalist in the Philadelphia Stories’ National Prize in Poetry.

Paradise is Burning

Prosperity pinches at the sides of purpose
Teeth pulling to the profiteer
Oh, why me? They shout treating philanthropy as penance
Pacify their pessimism for paradise is burning
And passion is not measured by the weight of one's purse

On the Road to Emerald City

White knuckled I gripped the smaller half of a wishbone
A receipt with a hastily scribbled number and a heart
That would never text back
But I, the larger half of a hope

In your clenched hand, three-quarters of a smile
A number stuffed in my pocket with keys of Tin Man fingers
Wrapped around a paper heart
And you, the smaller half of a promise

I was given the gift receipt for the medals Oz gave to the lion
As if courage could be bought with store credit
Fluorescent lights and rows and rows of ruby-red slippers
Selling the dream of no place like home

She will get her whole smile
When yellow bricks turn to gold
Tell King Midas, gold means nothing to a kingdom of statues

Greyscale

The color before blue
Not everything has meaning like it used to
Point out the charm of my favorite artists

Eyes too small for a face
They have shrunk
Let my world build plaque on the gums

Like a first word, I’ll go out with a gargle
False hope of holy water
Fluid in my lungs
Undrying a worm in the sun

A weather vane still turns when no ones home
When no one tends to the garden
The birds still bathe in dirty water

And dogs still smile at the rainbow in greyscale

William Weiss is a writer hailing from Pasadena, California. He works with disabled adults to help expand their capabilities and possibilities, and as a musician, he loves the rhythm behind words and the diverse dialog of interpretation poetry brings. You can often find William brooding over a line under his desk, sitting on his desk, on the floor, in a crowded elevator, or really any place that he has a second to think. He is a recently published poet in The Broadkill Review as well as Oprelle Publications, and a semifinalist in the Philadelphia Stories’ National Prize in Poetry.