Bill Cushing
Called the “blue collar poet” by classmates after serving in the Navy and later working on commercial vessels before returning to school at 35, Bill Cushing’s work has appeared in anthologies, journals, magazines, even newspapers. Now retired after over 20 years, he continues teaching part time. Bill has four previous poetry collections: A Former Life (Kops-Fetherling International Award), Music Speaks (San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Award; New York City Book Award), “. . .this just in. . .”, and Just a Little Cage of Bone (American Writing Award finalist).
Called the “blue collar poet” by classmates after serving in the Navy and later working on commercial vessels before returning to school at 35, Bill Cushing’s work has appeared in anthologies, journals, magazines, even newspapers. Now retired after over 20 years, he continues teaching part time. Bill has four previous poetry collections: A Former Life (Kops-Fetherling International Award), Music Speaks (San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Award; New York City Book Award), “. . .this just in. . .”, and Just a Little Cage of Bone (American Writing Award finalist).
Restraining the Beast Within
Crouching within my cranium,
its curved spine crammed within
my skull, having grown out of my
reptilian complex, tethered
to a binary plane where
thought reigns as our ancien regime.
Its fangs align with my nostrils
as if those flared voids might provide
hatches to make its escape.
Its left hand, claws out, pushes down,
then against my chin, perhaps
trying to create a portal
of my mouth. Its arms clog my ears,
diminishes the low hum
of others’ invading voices.
Reason tries to disrupt my life,
infuses calm to try and restrain
the brute residing in the brain,
locked behind a collar subdued
by a Windsor knot of virtue.
Crouching within my cranium,
its curved spine crammed within
my skull, having grown out of my
reptilian complex, tethered
to a binary plane where
thought reigns as our ancien regime.
Its fangs align with my nostrils
as if those flared voids might provide
hatches to make its escape.
Its left hand, claws out, pushes down,
then against my chin, perhaps
trying to create a portal
of my mouth. Its arms clog my ears,
diminishes the low hum
of others’ invading voices.
Reason tries to disrupt my life,
infuses calm to try and restrain
the brute residing in the brain,
locked behind a collar subdued
by a Windsor knot of virtue.
© 2025 Bill Cushing
Bill Cushing was a Featured Poet at the April 2025 Second Sunday Poetry Series
Bill Cushing was a Featured Poet at the April 2025 Second Sunday Poetry Series