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Kristen Willms' Official Site



In the words of the great Neil Gaiman, "the poems are free."  I post them here for your enjoyment. 8)

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." ― N.H. Kleinbaum

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The House I Built

Posted by [email protected] on April 21, 2017 at 11:35 AM

The foundation was of caring

Trusting held it together

With acres and acres of love

In the house I built for us

I placed it in the sunshine

Beautiful songs and sweet sounds

And stars from Heaven above

In the house I built for us

It’s rooms were filled with sweetness

To cherish for all out days

Each designed with tenderness

In the house I built for us

It’s basis was the sensation

Your kisses gave to me

And the warmth in your caresses

In the house I built for us

I’ve been searching all my life

For creative perfection

And I gave that all to you

In the house I built for us

The walls have seen for years

The memories we now hold

Of all that we’ve been through

In the house I built for us

The time we spent together

Was something great indeed

The special relationship we shared

In the house I built for us

You were my only love

The one I gave my life

And I knew there was someone who cared

In the house I built for us

Now you’ve left my life completely

As you journey somewhere new

And I stay here growing old

In the house I built for us

The rooms all have been emptied

Of the gentleness they held

And the walls are stony cold

In the house I built for us

Driving in a Florida Storm

Posted by [email protected] on April 2, 2017 at 8:25 PM

The skies opened up

As if to say

“No pleasant drive for you.

Let’s see you pass this trial.”

Water falling from

The heavens

Coming hard and heavy

Forming fluid walls

Outside the window it

Appears as if you’re underwater


There is light

Yet, no visibility

Choice: to stop and wait

Or continue on a wing and a prayer

Finally arrived

Placed in park

Sigh of relief

This trial is over

The Message

Posted by [email protected] on March 16, 2017 at 2:40 AM

I am the All-American Heard!

And I am looking down from Mt. Olympus

To let you all know

Now that I have existed in this world,

My voice will live on for all eternity-

It will never be silenced.

And it will haunt forever

All the oppressors

All the haters

For I am on the side of right

Because my message is of love.

And this makes them powerless

In their efforts to exorcize me

From the pages of history.

I am the change I want in the world

As I live my life similar to Gandhi.

And I will not go gently into that goodnight

As I speak eloquently like Frost.

For actions and words are what

Is needed for change in the world.

I am the All-American Heard

…And I approve this message.


Strange Bedfellows

Posted by [email protected] on September 9, 2016 at 6:25 AM

Night looms loneliness

over my barren bed. I am

lost in the books

languishing across the

bed. They are

my companion

through the endless

evenings while my

beloved drives

throughout the country.


My cat lays

beside me. She purrs

and coos. My confidante

through the solitary

twilight. My fluffy

child, filling in for those

who’ve grown up, moved on.


All of them together

demanding my attention,

offering themselves,

consuming my time,

taking focus off

of my empty nest.

October 2014


Scattered Reflections of Grandma's House

Posted by [email protected] on August 7, 2016 at 3:00 AM

Roses in the front yard…

Smoke from the BBQ in the backyard…

Seen through our youthful eyes,

It was never enough.

We would giggle at the potential,

As we sat on the couch and wondered,

That the Blues could lead to Hope.


As Grandpa’s car drove over the gravel

And hit every pot hole in the pavement.

The engine would hiss as it shut down

In the driveway, on the side of the house.

Then the Door would squeal

To cause all to glance in its direction,

To see Grandma in her new glasses.


We would balance on our nose

Robin feathers, fallen from

The backyard tree he claimed,

Trying to keep them from falling off.

These were the games of youth, that

We labored at in those summer days.


When we were blessed with sun

Hiding in the bush was, well,

A good thing.

The dog longing to reach the neighbor’s cat.

I would bare-handle it back to its home

Where one could see the heather in the yard.


In the evening, the crickets would sing

As we listened to the remote voices from the park

Up the street as they speak of baseball;

Pitcher breaking in a new glove,

Cleats ripping up the sod,

The skill of the swing.

…All in the falling darkness of twilight.


Drama, as the autumn leaves browned-

Death was on the landscape.

There was no scene from earlier to prepare us,

To make it disappear behind

A Magicians handkerchief

Or like leaves from the branches.


Adults yelling “Watch the children!”

What a spectacle they made!

As the mourners cast dull eyes

In their direction

And the leaves wanted to join in too

Flying in through the doors,

Into the living room to flutter near

Great Grandma’s coffin

Where she lay smiling.

I would rather see her

Dancing again.


I was just a girl when the shadows

Would make leaps into the future.

We were just kids as the shadows

Pushed us toward the future.

We were young.


Nights in my Apartment-

Remembering, as evening lingers,

While listening to the old 45s

And wonder at this time of love.

Unforgettable yet forgotten,

Time marched, bringing to an end the

Patented cries from the past that

Made it true.


The House of Sorrow

Posted by [email protected] on May 17, 2016 at 8:00 PM

Walls obscured with despairs of those

who came before us. The Shadow Angel

greeted us. She spoke of who came before,

to pour their absent spirituality, humanity, life

into the bulwarks of the house. Anguished spirits

entombed to wallow in agonies they experienced in life.


Lost friends, lost loves, lost family,

failed dreams, broken marriages,

squandered prospects, endless loneliness,

every torment was experienced by

those who enter this dwelling.


The air was oppressive, crushing

in like an unyielding obstruction

forcing the air from our lungs.

Light could not penetrate the walls,

or our eyes as we stood in its ebony halls.

How, someone exclaimed,

does one rid this place of all this pain?

The Shadow Angel proclaimed

there must be a cleansing and purifying purge.

Only then the spirits can move on.

Oh, how do we release them? they bellowed

Then a single tear born out

of sympathy and compassion fell;

the surroundings slightly and suddenly

changed. We all began to weep

for the miserable dead,

cleansing with water,

purifying with salt,

made up our tears.

One drop rapidly became a tsunami.

The wave crashed and pummeled

against the walls with vehement vigor.

Then, it was gone.

They started to place picturesque

blissful memories upon the walls:

first snow of winter, first flowers of spring

holding a newborn baby, the bliss of a kiss.

The Shadow Angel expressed these walls would

only absorb the sadness; that joy flowed off

them as if they were coated in paraffin.

And they watched as those images

melting down, disappearing into the ether.

Then what was it all for? they cried.

The Shadow Angel declared, ‘Tis the House of Sorrow.

Its purpose is for those to lay down their pain

when there is no one else to annul it.

Tis here they wait till someone arrives

to wash it away for them.

 I nodded to our angelic host,

then walked out the door. She called out;

do you not wish to imbrue these walls?

I replied no.

I got what I came for, to see if I

could resist temptation. I can let go

of my professional frustrations,

my solitude from others, my imagined failures.


Yes I, like those before me,

and those who will come after

will bring our personal burdens into those walls,

and they remain as they are;

fixed, in stasis, unchanging.


The Real World: Original Soundtrack of My Life

Posted by [email protected] on April 29, 2016 at 2:50 AM

I was born the year

The Fab Four disbanded

and the Voodoo Child died.

It was a cursed year,

to those who survived it,

but many more decades

would surpass it.


The formative days of my youth,

existed in the shadowed aftermath

of Love and Peace, reverberations

of combat torn Boomers.

“Stairway to Heaven” filled our kitchen

and “Smoke on the Water” riffed

its way into melodic infamy.

The harmonious turmoil matched

my ever shifting residential

situations, while humanity

sought to recover its path.

Puberty was punctuated

by the Birmingham five, asking

the question on everyone’s mind

“Please, please tell me now,

Is there something I should know?”

Little did we discern, in the synthesizer

packed prosperity party, in our neon haze

as “New Romantics looking for the

TV sound”, we should have pushed

harder for those answers. They

could have prevented the present

problems, by revealing the core.


Speed metal and grunge ushered

in the arrival of parenthood,

and the grey flannel days.

Sleepless nights, soiled diaper,

endless bottles and clothes

to wash. Life as the decade’s

mirror. Music acting as commentary

on the letdown of aspirations,

for me and my fellow Gen X’ers.

Punctuated by a Seattle suicide,

the product of heroin and shotgun rage.

 And as we see some outward appearance

of attainment over the vista,

tragedy befalls a rocky mountain town.

Self-proclaimed messiahs in trench coats

appearing amidst a storm of gunfire.

Surrendered to their selfish deities, blood

must spill for justice to be served.

Omega, the Antichrist Superstar, martyred,

crucified on his Holy Wood to compensate

for their sins. I looked upon my progeny

and felt the first of the fear

for their future that flourished

in years to follow.


Now I exist in an empty household

while the loudest vulgar voices

in the room roar of empty values,

empty journalist principles,

empty political promises, all sold

to the highest bidder in the clearance

sale on the soul of America. I forsake

the hi-fi, like those who come over

its airwaves had forsaken musical

art for the money grab. Video

did not kill the radio star; thy slayer’s

name is capitalism. Empty tunes

drowning out the substance still

struggling to rediscover its volume.