The Human Core - Poem , GeneralThe Human Core - Poem , Generalhttps://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/generalFri, 19 Jun 2026 15:21:55 -0700http://zoho.com/sites/<![CDATA[You & Them]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/you-themYou can almost hear the snickering Behind their quizzical stares, And feel their question behind The long, awkward silence that asks What is art Compared t ]]>

You can almost hear the snickering

Behind their quizzical stares,

And feel their question behind

The long, awkward silence that asks

What is art

Compared to wealth?


You might wonder 

If they care about the past,

Shrugging before yet another cemetery,

Another memorial, 

Questioning the origin story of your people,

Questioning the value of history,

Questioning if memory really even exists.


As you feel their question,

Behind perfectly manicured lawns

And freshly cut grass,

Behind happy, well-educated couples 

Walking confidently by

In sports visors and polo shirts,

Behind salad bars, pasta bars

And dessert bars,

Behind rows and rows

Of custom golf carts,

Behind rows and rows

Of luxury cars,

Behind secret rules and more secret expectations 

Asking in a whisper;

What exactly is wrong

With country club living?


You also worry they might be right:

That beauty is a dead end,

That talk of God is embarrassing,

That all art making is a hobby,

That any venture that doesn’t make money 

Is a boondoggle.


You might wonder 

If they care about the present,

More than the feeling of swallowing 

Salty lobster and hot butter,

More than watching the sunrise

Ignite glassy waters aflame

From their private docks,

More than experiencing 

The curvature of the Earth

Above a blanket of clouds

From soft Italian leather seats

In their Gulfstream G650.


As you feel their question

Behind power games of success theater,

A flurry of social media texts,

Can't do lunch, too busy,

Having lunch with the President,

Both talking from both sides of their mouths

When they ask

What is truth

Compared to appearance? 


You also worry they might be right:

We are not all in this together,

There is no family, no community,

No society,

There is only selves

Like atoms jostling in a jar,

We are nothing but genes replicating genes,

We are only our behavior

And our behavior is programmable.


You might wonder 

If they care about the future,

More than attending a gala

To save a rainforest somewhere,

More than next quarter’s financial statements,

More than booking a first-class seat for a trip in six months.


As you feel their question

Behind a utopia of entrepreneurs,

A culture of takers and hustlers,

Of predators and murderers

Taking what they want, when they want,

In an orgy of desire that asks

What is justice

Compared to power?


You also worry they might be right:

There is only power.

The past is a figment of your imagination,

A story masquerading as identity.

The present is only what the economy

Tells you to pay attention to,

The future is a dream flowing

Not forward but backward,

Not inward but outward,

Not earthward but starward,

Until you feel their question

Behind their beautiful face asking 

How different do you think you are?


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]]>Wed, 13 May 2026 23:12:00 +0000<![CDATA[Dark Days]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/dark-daysDark days descend  When black humors ink the void, Like a giant squid groping In the cold, silent depths. You feel the pressure everywhere Like an ent ]]>

Dark days descend 

When black humors ink the void,

Like a giant squid groping

In the cold, silent depths.


You feel the pressure everywhere

Like an entire city block on your back,

Can’t see an inch in front of your face

Without feeling your eyeballs squeezed down like olives.


Can’t think except for the impossibility 

Of reason under these conditions,

Can’t imagine another life, one with diaphanous summer light

And sunrises that create the divide of day and night.


We are the aliens we dream about,

The giant squids of our own dark imaginations,

Full of malice, full of our own private

Hatreds and bigotries.


Trapped at the bottom of an ocean

Of the past, trapped in the caves of our ignorance,

Trapped in daemonic masks, stalking insecurities, rattling the sabers

Of our tongues to ward off the evil spirits of loneliness.


Ascending close to the surface

Like a moment of clarity in the middle of the day,

We sense another world

Where laughter is the water breathed,


And the days are made of light,

Like memories of running down a hill,

The air as light as a sunbeam of being

Cast across the dome of an infinite world.

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]]>Mon, 11 May 2026 23:19:54 +0000<![CDATA[ The Artist- I]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/the-artist-iYou don’t need art In the middle of a dream, Waking up cheek to cheek With your sleeping daughter Who climbed into bed, frightened With dreams of her own. Y ]]>

You don’t need art

In the middle of a dream,

Waking up cheek to cheek

With your sleeping daughter

Who climbed into bed, frightened

With dreams of her own.


You need art

For the month after your father dies

When everything before you is

Like driving in a snowstorm at night.

You don’t need art

In the middle of making art,

Where art becomes a series 

Of neighborly decisions,

Like driving down a country road

In summer time.


You need art

For those silences

That become decades

Of spiritual distance,

When what was lost

Becomes myth.


You don’t need art

In the middle of the best kissing of your life,

Inhaling each other’s breath,

Lips slipping off each other,

Tongues exploring tongues

Like two night crawlers greeting underground,

Saying hello.


You need art

When you forget what it is to be human,

What light does to a secret garden,

What time looks like caught

Like a moth on a screen.


You don’t need art

Watching a screen,

Bathed in a warm bath

Of images, easy storylines,

Colonized by commodities

Like a shampoo of sublime banalities

Tingling every pore

On your head.


You need art

When you inevitably reach

The disappointing limits

Of any human relationship,

And the act of painting

Becomes an act of certainty,

An act of potential,

An act of transcendence.


You don’t need art

Surrounded by family,

Cousins playing piano together,

Aunts and Uncles reclining 

Into important conversations,

The smell of warm pecan pie

Everywhere.


You need art

When you realize you are 

Basically alone in this world,

That the memory of a friend

Is a far more fragile thing

Then the portrait of a stranger.


You don’t need art

When you have a friend,

Traveling to Oklahoma

Searching for the ghost of Woody Guthrie 

And your father,

Each fighting fascists 

In their own way.


You need art

When you realize there’s no such thing as a friend,

Behind all the pleasantries, invitations, and shared moments,

There are only vortexes of self-interest,

Only veils of welcoming and human kindness,

Only voyeurs of the pain and love

Of another life.


You don’t need art

When viewing art with a friend,

Walking around the Whitney together in silence,

Admiring the portrait of Glass by Close,

Or the Alex Katz along the wall,

Friendship like a pair of figure skaters 

Gliding passed each other in the galleries,

Eye contact guiding 

From one room to another.


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]]>Mon, 11 May 2026 22:15:29 +0000<![CDATA[My Toes]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/my-toesLike a thug Irish street gang, Beat up, mangy, and gnarled. Crowded together as if for a mug shot, The large one, the muscle, crusted over, Put through th ]]>

Like a thug Irish street gang,

Beat up, mangy, and gnarled.

Crowded together as if for a mug shot,

The large one, the muscle, crusted over,

Put through the wringer,

Next to him was the big guy’s best friend,

Mastermind of the whole outfit,

Long, skinny, and balding 

Hairs ingrown,

Then there was Roast-Beef,

Or so he was called,

On account of looking like he lost

Every fight he ever fought,

Next was the little guy with none

Of the personality of the others,

Just a runt who repeated everything

Roast-Beef said,

Finally, there was Wee-Wee,

Little brother of Roast-Beef,

Who cried at the first sight of clippers

And ran all the way home.


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]]>Mon, 11 May 2026 15:50:31 +0000<![CDATA[The Neighbor]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/the-neighborWalking around, You can’t help learning about longing For an ordered world, gleaming from a manicured lawn. How care comes from Chrysthaneumums Planted te ]]>

Walking around,

You can’t help learning about longing

For an ordered world, gleaming from a manicured lawn.


How care comes from Chrysthaneumums

Planted tenderly in rings

Around a mailbox.


How the mezuzah on the doorframe

And the quiet outside 2B on a Friday evening,

Is a holy quiet.


How a wild, untamed front yard,

Private property and do not enter signs 

Speaks of brokenness, of loss, of a love once vibrant, now gone forever.


Walking around, you see strangers passing each other 

In grey oblivion, passing each other with sidelong glances of unspoken resentment, 

Passing each other with a glimmer of recognition.


You see newspapers delivered

At the front of a driveway,

Cars that never leave, visitors that never come.


You hear bodegas blaring

Latin dance music 

At eight in the morning.


You hear heated conversations

Happening right in the middle

Of the sidewalk.


You see families

Hanging out on their stoops

Watching the neighborhood.


Walking down a country road

Dipping down 

Through the middle of two ponds.


Bamboo,

Full of snow, bends down

Across the road.


The distance between houses, 

The distance between lives that suggests 

How close should we get to other human beings.


Walking around

On the street where you grew up,

The street of sacred memory.


The slope of the ground,

The bend of the road,

The deep familiarity of the houses.


Late at night when everyone is asleep,

Alone, standing in the middle of the street,

You have never felt more seen.


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]]>Mon, 11 May 2026 00:26:14 +0000<![CDATA[The Angel Muse]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/the-angel-museCheek to cheek in loving clique, Warm blanket of security, The perfect sleep with dreams down deep And fears faded into obscurity. Loving girl, skin of pe ]]>

Cheek to cheek in loving clique,

Warm blanket of security,

The perfect sleep with dreams down deep

And fears faded into obscurity.


Loving girl, skin of pearl

Whose beauty and kindness are one,

The hair in curls, the skirt that twirls

And a mind shining like the sun.


Hair in the wind, legs that are thin

Like sticks pushing pedals on a bike,

Nine-year-old grin, in a world without sin,

On a summer’s day hike.


A book read in the nook of her bed,

Faster than lightning flashes,

Stories in the head become narration that is said

From beautifully mascaraed eyelashes.


Oh, the wit and the mouth that comes from it,

More dangerous than a dagger to the heart,

The biting bit and the words that hit

Turning a simple response into art.


Beauty masks a mind more ferocious than kind,

At least in the tempest of a teenager,

We love them blind in the weekday grind

Knowing a bet on love is always a smart wager.


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]]>Fri, 08 May 2026 00:24:26 +0000<![CDATA[The Human Core]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/the-human-coreBuried, buried deep In the Human Core, Grievances wash up Along resentment’s shore. As we hold onto grudges  Like seashells we adore. Buried, buried de ]]>

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Grievances wash up
Along resentment’s shore.
As we hold onto grudges 
Like seashells we adore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Language’s lattice bears fruit
In the mind’s pergola’s sweet-scented store.
As we pick the ripe analogies,
And bite into the juicy metaphor.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Kindness is a strategy
Against natural war.
As we plant affection
To reap in a season of rapport.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Evil destroys the soul’s empire
Like a marauding conquistador.
As we choose death
In the rapture of war.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Fear stops us cold
Like the steely stare of the minotaur.
As we spend decades
All too scared to explore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Love is life’s 
Rare secret splendor,
Reveling in anticipation
As we approach the sacred door.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Death is waiting, stalking 
As we distract ourselves to ignore
The pale fist knocking,
Knocking at our door.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Desire runs through veins
Like junkies in a drugstore.
Learning to want
By wanting more.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Above hostility’s vent
Of smoldering vapor,
Violence’s magma churns,
Churns the fateful ore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Envy burns a hole
Through desire’s floor.
As we annex our neighbor’s dreams
Through the department store.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Truth dwells in tender
Moments of candor,
As we feel the presence
Of truth’s underscore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Secrets become impossible
To ignore,
As weighty and starved 
As a dinosaur.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Passion is a frenzied
Esprit De Corp,
As lust becomes 
The secrets we swore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Humility is folded up
In a drawer,
As unassuming as a Sunday 
Chore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Status stands like Estrada
In Ecuador,
As we believe rank is real
In the blood-stained mouth of the carnivore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Shame looks away
Like a guilty whore,
As we confront our past
In what we abhor.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Music is felt
In the heart’s beat four,
As the song is sung 
From the troubadour.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Ego talks and talks and talks
Like a bloviating bore,
As we see the true mind
When bowing for our encore.

Buried, buried deep
In the Human Core,
Childhood memories
Refresh and restore,
As we wonder if we’ll ever 
Be that happy anymore.

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]]>Thu, 07 May 2026 23:41:03 +0000<![CDATA[Tomatoes]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/tomatoesRound and red and full of dread, Fearful fruit ripe to be bled, They say beauty hides goodness within But I simply do not believe them. Sunlight glistens ]]>

Round and red and full of dread,

Fearful fruit ripe to be bled,

They say beauty hides goodness within

But I simply do not believe them.


Sunlight glistens red orbs on the vine,

Some pop cherries in their mouth and call it divine.

I shudder at the thought and admire them from afar,

The idea of eating one whole seems simply bizarre.


I know it’s in ketchup, I know it’s in sauce,

But forgoing a ripe one is really no loss.

The texture’s the thing that makes me want to gag,

So simply slice one open, and I’ll heave into a rag.

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]]>Thu, 07 May 2026 14:44:43 +0000<![CDATA[The Teacher- I]]>https://thehumancore.philipcharleswilliams.com/poems/post/the-teacher-iHer father poo-pooed the idea Of her going to Law School And becoming an attorney, like him, Because that’s not what girls did, Even though she could take ]]>

Her father poo-pooed the idea
Of her going to Law School
And becoming an attorney, like him,
Because that’s not what girls did,
Even though she could take apart his arguments
With her eyes closed.

After battling her father at the dinner table,
She learned what it’s like to deal with difficult people.
Up in her room,
She sat her little brother in a chair,
Brought out a small blackboard
And wrote her name out in chalk.

Outside of Chicago,
Standing in front of her first classroom,
She learned something important about teaching.
That children were the easy part,
If only the job were just teaching.
Battling crazed parents,

The side-eyed glances of other teachers,
The imperious posturing of principals,
The lonely commute out to a school
In the middle of nowhere,
Where her youth withered away 
Into the cornfields.

Still, her students smiled brightly with
Sweet, eager faces ready to please,
And even when animal spirits stirred after recess
Staring them down, serious as a southern judge,
She learned something important about happiness.
You must celebrate what can be celebrated when you can celebrate it.

That her happiness is hers and no one else's,
And no one could make her unhappy.
Not her father, not any man,
Not the mixed bag of teaching, or love,
Not her dreams of becoming an attorney
Standing in front of a judge, ready to argue her case.

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]]>Thu, 07 May 2026 00:27:53 +0000