William Kilgore is a sociology professor residing in Houston. After 30 years as an academic, William began writing poetry in 2024 after a kidney transplant. This opened a door to a new way of contemplating things. Initially writing for himself, friends and family have encouraged him to seek publication.
Only Echoes
Under an Arkansas sky,
searching for my friend
so I can tell him of my adventures
to find him while the earth remained,
just now bathing me in
Ozark chill, in a mid-July far different
from South Texas sweat
blindingly obscuring the eyes.
However, it seems that
mountain winds are capable blindfolds,
as locating my friend
proves a frustratingly futile attempt
forged in desperate loneliness,
merely an excuse for a quest worth
telling about when I find him.
Or, when I don’t.
Someone will listen. Right?
Though I’d have to see someone,
something I notice I haven’t noticed.
Calling out his name
proving a cry only answered
by echoes bouncing across mountains,
never reaching the ears
of the intended recipient.
Searching continues on
with no optional alternative,
our once-vibrant friendship lost
somewhere in high altitudes where air
exists only in thin wisps
greedily grasped for by deprived lungs.
No matter how close to sky I get,
I’ll breathe easier when he’s found.
…
Where are you, my friend?
© William Kilgore
Reputations Typology
“Whatever,”
said my thirteen year old niece,
as she walked through the room,
not bothering to look up.
A generation’s shorthand for
“Frankly, dude, I don’t give a damn.”
(Or, perhaps, for the middle finger).
This, the new antidote for
reputational issues a young me faced.
“Billy likes fat girls.”
Something I never wanted to hear
as a teenager, causing me to keep
my attraction secret.
No one wanted to be a social outcast.
Stigmas were plentiful then.
“Fat Bottomed Girls” did nothing
to help (taken more as humor, I think),
and Sir Mix-a-lot changed the game
too late for my generation.
So, I toed the line in order to
run the marathon of fitting in.
In some ways, “whatever” seems
a welcome correction, though like
all corrections, perhaps
exceeding its usefulness?
Much-deserved critiques of
cliquish folkways aside,
when carefully considered,
we live our entire lives pleasing others
and bartering for acceptance.
In high school, I muted what I liked
in exchange for social embrace.
At work, I am concerned to please
those who keep food on my table.
This poem was carefully selected
based on the rules of the journal.
Are not all these the same?
No one keeps a job, or gets
a poem published with “whatever.”
Though norms fluctuate, none stay in
a social group with “whatever,” either.
To some significant degree,
caring what others may think
is the pulse of daily life,
palatability not being a concern
of the social milieu.
“I don’t care what people think.”
Oh, but I think we do, though perhaps
some audiences over others.
“What you see is what you get.”
Ah, yes, I’m sure.
But the rub is in the fine print:
what others “see” is a slanted view
that we craft, based on
an audience of the moment.
Each of us, capable of varying scripts.
“All my cards are on the table.”
Basically, synonymous with
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Yet, hide we do, each of us always
looking to keep aces up our sleeve,
everything else
held close, close, close to the vest.
Efforts to manage impressions,
to give a damn about reputations,
are universal, if we’re honest.
This raises a question:
Why, then, are we so enamored with
claiming uniqueness in a vacuum?
To be individuals, unbeholden?
I’d bet it’s because
others
expect this of us.
© William Kilgore