Tag Archives: Ian Willey

Ian Willey

Season 5

She came home with a new guy
and it was just like that year
when the actors went on strike
and on The Dukes of Hazzard
a couple of new dudes came in
to take the place of Bo and Luke
who, they said on the show,
had left to see a NASCAR race,
unlike our own dad whose
departure was more mysterious
and whose replacement didn’t
even try to act like him as we
went through the same adventures
in the same car making our way
the only way we knew how.


Ian Willey often gets in arguments with Grammarly.com and loses.


 

Ian Willey

Time to Cool Down

I realized how much this situation has changed me
while watching some dumb movie and there was this
scene where a woman moves towards a man slowly
as the music lets you know that this is the moment
when they come together and become a something
and their lips are almost touching and I’m thinking
my god, how can they be doing this when neither of
them has gargled or taken a swab test and don’t
they realize this isn’t something people just do
anymore without precautionary measures
or better yet a twenty-year marriage?


To get back home Ian Willey has to take a flight from Tokyo to Chicago and then transfer to Greensboro, NC, when the planes are flying.


 

Judy Kronenfeld

Old Longing

The wine-dark velvet cloak of the prima
ballerina (it had to be she!) sweeps
over her lathe-turned calf when she lifts her
slippered, alabaster foot—arched and pointed—
into the black cab in the rain-glossed alley
adjoining the theater—as, hand gripped
by mother’s, you are swept along
with the exiting crowds—and the black door
shuts on that glimpse the years hurry you
away from towards the downward plunge,
grit gusting around your thickened ankles,
and the hot breath of the subway,
merely home and home and home.


Judy Kronenfeld is the author of four full-length books of poetry, and longing to get the fifth one, now making the rounds, out into the world.


 

Ian Willey

Gone Viral

Standing here with this mask on my face
I watch the starlings leap from wire to sky
where they swirl and circle and return
to the wires to pause before bursting skyward
and repeating their performance with stunning
coordination and speed—what the watchers call
a murmuration—and I’m gripped
by the electricity of it all,
how the birds move
like a video gone viral,
like a fear spreading
through a free society.


Ian Willey is a teacher who spends his days looking for meaning, and occasionally his sunglasses.


 

Ian Willey

A Wonderful Life

It’s drizzling here in economy,
but when the curtains part I get
a glimpse of powder on the backs
of the seats of the upper classes,
and a cabin attendant who looks like
Jimmy Stewart passes out checks
to hands that rise from the seats
like the necks of swans
on a private lake.


Ian Willey has a degree in Communications with a minor in Silence.


 

Ian Willey

Empty Nest

When they razed the field to make space
for the last of the houses the killdeer no longer
had any place to make their nests so they left,
all but one, who somehow got into the blood
of the woman living alone at the top of the hill,
which is why you can see her from time to time
dragging one wing on the lawn and screeching
“I’m here, I’m here” as the cars come home
early in the evening.


Ian Willey has a degree in Communications with a minor in Silence.


 

Pushcart Nominee 2019

Ian Willey

The End

If the sun were suddenly to explode we’d have eight minutes
and twenty seconds before the shockwave reached earth
to annihilate everything, meaning there wouldn’t be enough
time to listen to “The End” by The Doors, though you could
play R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as I Know It
(And I Feel Fine)” twice and still have twelve seconds left,
assuming you could tell exactly when the sun exploded
and press play right then, and you were awake,
with some time on your hands, and felt fine.


My name is Ian Willey and I approve of this poem.

Ian Willey

Awakening

Not having watered the tomatoes for weeks
it was a surprise to find on the vine, basking
in an autumn sunrise, a pair of tomatoes, pale
and sunken like the breasts of an old widow,
who awakes one chilly October morning
and realizes now is the time.


My name is Ian Willey and I approve of this poem.