Monthly Archives: July 2012

The Schooner

Gentle waves caress the hull,

As a lover to it’s mate,

Soft undulations fostering a grand dream.

Gulls sound their lullaby,

Urging on this docile behemoth,

Fashioned of wood and pitch.

Sun warming the salt bleached deck,

Whilst beams reflect off whitecaps crest,

Blinding as diamonds are beautiful.

Cool breezes buffet weather worn sails,

Placidly rolling port and starboard,

Slicing onward through gulf born swell.

Spar raised skyward,

Touching heaven with square sail unfurled,

Carried by the breath of angels.

Acrid spray stings,

Overpowering the bulkhead in swarms,

Showering planks with briny ice.

Days last glow cast shadow approaches,

Salt sea air begs sailors slumber,

Beckoning twilight to take the helm.

Timber creaks with waves touch tender,

As starlight hails sunsets mate,

The moon assumes this maidens master.

What ports ahead in waters uncharted,

Daybreak’s charge determines the way,

To stern bid farewell the fore she must go.

Old Man in the Mirror – (A Poem)

Time humbles the man,

Back arching under the weight of a lifetime,

Old photographs,

A reminder of good friends and loves that long ago passed.

 

The mind drifts,

Not as sharp or quick witted as it once was,

Long gone memories much fresher than today,

Then again, yesterday fits me much better.

 

Hair gone white,

Deep creases travel like dry river beds across my face,

Skin soft and sagging,

Looking in the mirror I can scarcely recognize myself.

 

Who is that old man staring back at me?

Drawn and tired,

Teeth yellowed, eyelids hanging like cheap suits,

I know it’s me inside this costume.

 

The crumbling exterior,

A vessel for a lifetime of wisdom and experience.

Earned through pain, suffering, love, and joy,

A gift wasted on the young.

 

None of this would I trade for the impetuousness of youth,

Born of  blood sweat, and tears,

Etched in my face as a reminder,

A badge to be worn with honor.

 

Emotion

By D. R. DiFrancesco

 

Emotions so fragile,

Pushed to the forefront,

Exposed like raw nerves.

 

Twisted to fit the mold,

Irrational to the point of ridiculous,

Impossible to live without.

 

In apathy we stifle them,

Turning cold and hard,

Void of feelings toward the outside world.

 

In love they are laid bare,

Naked to the beholder,

Shatterable as crystal in the hands of a child.

 

In anger they are irrational,

Fierce and hateful in their rage,

Destructive as fire when unrestrained.

 

In joy there is peace,

Freely gifted to those accepting,

Shared willingly without precondition or pretense.

 

In sadness there is affliction,

Crushing then strengthening our resolve,

Amplifying our vulnerabilities.

 

Unique in our humanness,

Thriving on more than instinct alone,

Alive in our emotions.

First Haiku

The heat of summer

Bakes the earth to cinders

Life thrives in this hell

———————————————-

Water carves the sphere

Bringing character from God

To the earth it’s canvas

———————————————-

Shattered window breaks

Leaving shards of glass below

Rocks thrown by children

 

The Touch of Poetry

I’m not a poet,

Whitman, Poe, Frost, Angelou,

Poet masters are these.

I, I am simply aspiring to their greatness,

Trying to find my way,

Trying to find the words to express my thoughts,

Trying to share what thrives inside of me.

Hoping that you find some  beauty in the words.

At times, thoughts evade me,

Words seem hard to form as if babbling,

Staring blankly at the page,

Suffering the pangs of the wall that hits me.

Knowing it won’t linger, helps me survive,

Just sitting with paper and pen comforts me,

Like an old friend, I clutch it close to my heart.

But it’s not for me to keep, but to share,

When words come,

Flowing, poetic, symbiotic,

Part of me, like my memories, rushes forth,

Screaming to be let out, shared with the world.

Happiest when I create,

Joyful in the company of prose,

Complete in the illusion that I’m artistic,

Whether real or imagined I don’t know.

Does it matter, I think not,

I will write,

I will let it take me down whatever road it chooses,

I will give my soul to whomever cares to take  it.

This I do out of respect for the art,

Even as an amateur,

I honor Whitman, Poe, Frost, and Angelou,

Hoping to make even the smallest of marks on those I touch.

The Beast

By D. R. DiFrancesco

Red is the moon,
Supernatural in it’s beauty
Frightening in it’s difference,
A distant howl shatters the dead quite night.

A mid-summer chill gnaws at my bones,
Trees casting shadows black as pitch,
Swaying in an unnatural dance,
Again, the wolf’s howl pierces the darkness.

Myths of old dash through my mind,
Illusions fog my senses,
Feeling helpless in the sight of the unseen,
Hastening my step to reach safety, but why?

The sound of footsteps,
Intermingling, then silencing my own,
I stop to listen,
Nothing but the wind rustling invisible folliage.

Sweat beads on my brow,
Dripping in torrents,
Clouding my vision and stinging my eyes,
Lips chapping cold, salty, hard to breathe.

Strangeness strangles me,
The howls are closer now, more frequent,
I strain to maintain composure,
Certainly this must be in my head.

My pace quickens as does my heartbeat,
Trying to outrun the howl,
Peering wide-eyed, over left shoulder then right,
Limbs and briars tear at my flesh.

Staggering confusion overtakes me,
Nothing seems familiar or friendly,
Sounds magnified with my heightened sense of awareness,
Stumbling, disoriented, trembling with fear.

But why?
Could it not be a dog?
A pet gone astray?
They say dogs are man’s best friend.

Behind me, in front of me, the howl,
They’re close now,
Growls, deep and guteral snap me back,
From the four winds they come.

What unholy hell is this?
A thousand pairs of eyes track me,
Nowhere to hide,
Blood trails down my face.

Hard to breathe,
Running seems the only solution,
Turning in cirles,
Those eyes, those howls, surround me.

Shadows, they seem so alive,
Moving closer,
Trying to suffocate me where I stand,
Like hands clutching at my throat.

Running, gasping, stumbling,
Tears welling up in my eyes,
Falling, they are almost upon me,
Resistance seems so futile.

Stunned, my face to the ground,
Foul breath envelopes me,
It’s moisture surrounds me like a cloud,
Terror takes hold of my very being.

Crawling, dragging myself to my feet,
I turn, they lunge,
A fury of fur and fang,
What nightmare has thrust me into this hell!

Beasts converge from all directions,
Flesh ripped from bone,
Pain numbs me,
Knocked to the ground under a demon pile.

Eyes flash a ghastly shade of green,
My body being torn asunder,
Who would have believed werewolves were real?
I can scarcely hear my death scream.

Limp, bloody and beaten, movement escapes me,
I can feel satan breathing in my face,
In a snarl I can see his unnatural fangs,
Dripping in blood, they are poised for the kill.

This moment of clarity,
Staring the beast in the eyes,
He has won, I was never any match,
My throat his grand prize.

Blood flowing uncontrollably,
No longer able to speak,
I can feel my life force draining away,
No more pain, no more fear.

To those that may follow,
Myths are routed in reality,
By God werewolves are real!
Just ask what is left of me.

The Grand Discovery

My reflection in the mirror,

A vision of the anti-me,

Not of flesh and blood,

Who am I?

What defines me?

A grandson,

A son,

A husband,

A parent,

I am all of these,

And yet I am none of these,

Reaching inside myself,

My essence floods over me,

I am so much more.

A poet,

A musician,

A story teller,

A friend,

Passionate and compassionate,

Creative and thoughtful,

Not merely what I outwardly project.

Yet who am I,

That remains a question for which I have no answer,

Ever evolving, I am constantly reborn,

Constantly discovering and rediscovering,

That which makes me…me.

The Vow – A Poem

By D. R. DiFrancesco

I could never find fault in you,
My soul lashed to yours won’t permit it,
Kindness envelopes your heart,
The warm inviting happiness in your smile
Blinds me to what others may see.

In my tribulation you have always been there,
Sickness and health has been no barrier,
My sadness washed away by your tears,
Nothing more could I ask of you,
All I could hope to repay, to return like kindness.

At my worst you stood by me,
Taking my hand to your lips,
A gentle kiss to reassure me,
Comforting me in your glow,
Inspiring my belief that everything would be okay.

When my strength weakend,
Bedridden and afflicted, you reinforced me,
Loving me without condition,
Honoring our vows,
Until I was strong again in my own flesh.

My friend through every storm,
I couldn’t ask for a better mate,
We are in union,
Syncronized to this lifes time,
My passion, my devotion, my love.

 

Moral Decay

By D. R. DiFrancesco

Fantasy glimmers amongst shades of crimson,
Distorting reality for it’s own vice,
Leaving idle minds to drown in corruption,
Leading tormented souls to succumb.

Society passes off lust as love,
Mingling sensitivities with animal instinct,
Numbing what sensibilities we portend to have,
Replacing them with primative urges.

Celluloid visions feed arousal and carnality,
Drifting recklessly across our screens,
Youth despoiled by images of debauchery,
Rendering them hollow and defiled.

Who’s to blame for the moral decay?
Pointing the venomous finger of irresponsibility,
Looking to the state for civil retort,
Misplacing censure to cloak parental shortcomings.

We are to blame,
Ignoring that which tears at our moral fiber,
Restraint not prudishness the intention,
Reaping what we sow our just deserve.

The Looking Glass

A window,

Like any other window,

Panes separate reality from fiction,

Anonymity, my closest friend.

 

The sidewalk,

Crowded with actors in this play,

Passers by looking up,

I’m part of the backdrop,

Important to the scenery,

Insignificant to the story,

But at least I’m still on stage.

 

I watch and listen,

Taking in the hustle and bustle outside,

So cliche’ yet so relevant,

The horns, the taxis,

Rushing to get to God knows where,

All to make another dollar.

 

People scramble,

Suits and ties, bohemians and homeless,

Sharing the same life on the streets,

Avoiding eye contact,

Avoiding making it personal

Too afraid of feeling empathy for those around them.

 

The children,

Double-dutch and hopscotch,

Brings back memories of simpler times,

Things weren’t so complicated back then,

Fire hydrants to beat the summer heat,

Careless and carefree were the names of the game.

 

My hands to glass,

Breath fogging my lens to the world,

Wishing I could be part of the show,

Instead of just a prop,

Destined to remain alone,

A fish in this fishbowl I call home.

 

A window,

Like any other window,

Panes separate reality from fiction,

Anonymity, my closest friend.