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Three Poems...

Shakespeare's Note From His Town 

I went to another small town today,  

bought two rings from an antique store  

to match my brother's. This town is full of dogs.  

I asked for a flat white coffee in a Thai  

restaurant. I got my third piercing yesterday,  

and for a moment, I felt happy about it. I would say  

this place is quite different for a start; it was hollow  

when I entered it in the morning. But there is an Old Bank  full of bricks. There is a Town Hall filled with gold.  

There is a giant clock not far from the Old Bank;  

you barely know it. Everything is old and vintage. It was far  left off alone. I tell you, it was worth a visit. Nothing is too late.  Nothing is old enough. What it’s filled with, are thoughts and feelings  of gold. Everything has its own measure, even if it’s old. So, dig out.  Dig it in, again. Until you died, and left the city with nothing  but your name written in each corner of the stores.  


Reflective Walk 

Kirkton Farm, Pentland Hills, produce.  

What kind of things are they producing? Milk, eggs, fur?  It’s healthy to commit a sin when the forest isn’t far.  

You thought nobody knew, and you knew you needed it.  You could always run.  

But then one sheep came and stood by you.  

The river made a gurgling sound.  

And it’s cold, but it’s clear.  

Now the past is just a past,  

and you stood there staring, ninety degrees, a hundred and eighty degrees,  three hundred and sixty degrees. You both look at each other  from a reflection in the water from a bridge.  

You smile at the goat,  

and the goat smiles at you.  

Now breathe. 

You forgot what living  

feels like.


When It Comes to Confession  

Pull out your teeth when you are done, because you would die as you speak.  It’s been like this ever since, ever since the internet and unknown callers.  

Ever since the mud stamp on the bottom of your feet, you never bother to wash  even though you know. There is a puddle and you love puddle so you step on it,  

because it’s wet and you want more.The grass looks greener than before.  You just never see, never see the branches from the window. Never see the dog dying  

because it does not scream. Never see the tree that crawls out from a brick until olden  and made beautifully by numbers, 1705. You never see anything unless it’s too loud  

and all you do is watch. Until the glass shatters and hit your eye. Until a brick hit you before stepping on a dead butterfly.





Valencia Wilianto is a Poet, Writer and B.Sc. Psychology graduate from an Australian University.  She was a distinguished guest for Annie Q. Podcast. She has taken a part in two anthologies  titled, “Embracing Flaws, the key to acceptance” and “snippets of life”. Her first and  forthcoming chapbook collection is titled, "What You Need”. Her monthly Poetry newsletter can  be found at You can also find her on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter,  and Tumblr @PoetryOfHvaw.

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