Monthly Archives: May 2014

Moss Slippery and Wet Beneath My Feet

Moss, slippery and wet beneath my feet,

Covering the rock and root tangled path I traverse.

Though drenched to the bone I am in ecstasy

For my love awaits by the lake shore.

The melodic sound of the wren announces my arrival,

Yet I am unable to discern whether she is happy or agitated.

No matter, through the mist I spy my lover’s shawl

Resting lazily on a fallen oak.

I call to her, but I am offered no reply.

How perplexing is this predicament.

The mirror like stillness of the lake reveals no trace,

No footsteps point her direction.

What supernal event has befallen her?

Horrible graphic images come to mind.

Did she drown,

Did she fall victim to some unknown villain,

Was she disheartened,

Choosing to stray off as some palliative remedy?

Alas, I am alone,

The fragrant scent of patchouli wafting from her shawl,

This–the only sign she had ever existed,

But for the perfect masterpiece of her kept

By the artist, that is my mind.

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco~~

Prompt: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie – Wordle #8

Mindlovemisery's Menagerie - Wordle #8

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie – Wordle #8

Who am I but me?

I thought that this poem was both powerful and very personal. I enjoyed it greatly and thought I would share it with all of you.

Oliana's avatarTraces of the Soul

I am me, none other,
not my mother’s weaknesses
nor the sins of my father
but the qualities of my mother,
strength of my grandmother
pigheadedness,
impatience blessed
my fortitude
and sometimes
with  some solitude;
when o’er the top
kinsfolk distressed.

I am perfect
in my imperfection
I`m an ordinary human being,
doing the best I can
with utmost dedication.

I love to  help, care
listen with compassion
giving, feeds me double rations
so much more do I receive.

I am female
woman, all the time
insisting I be true
to my heart`s desires,
my need for intimacy
my thirst for sexuality
if society permitted
I would not have to store
said desires in a drawer
No indeed!
they’d call me an exciting player
rather than promiscuous stayer
and…
I’m also a lady the rest of the time;

I am not English
nor am I French
I am Canadian,
then…

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Retaliation

Retaliation

Or at least the thought of it

Over little things

For this I have no excuse

Except for being human

I long to be more

Much more than this petty man

One that’s full of love

Unconsciously forgiving

WIth not one expectation

Even this is hard

This one solitary thing

Before the gauntlet

It is called being human

This one–I cannot escape

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Each Tick Of The Clock (Tanka)

Each tick of the clock

Signifies a new “present”

No past, no future

There is only this moment

Why not make the most of it

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Sticks And Stones

Sticks and stones may break one’s bones,

But words most certainly hurt.

Bones do heal as time has shown,

While words eternal pain can exert.

 

Some will use age as a valid excuse

For exhibition of poor behavior.

Even if you were some eccentric recluse,

This still wouldn’t serve as your savior.

 

All the money in this world does not buy you the right

To treat others as something less human.

On judgement day you will see the shortness of sight,

And your legacy will be seeking absolution.

 

Your racism only serves to sever the bonds

You should have with your sisters and brothers.

Claiming foul play when they choose to respond,

Treating them not as friends, but as others.

 

Bury your head in the proverbial sand,

Denying your views are archaic.

You won’t get away with the slap of a hand,

For in hate and prejudice you partake.

 

You’d think that these words would have long ago past

Into the annals of far ancient history.

Yet time and again they rear their ugly heads,

Why to me remains an elusive mystery.

 

Let bygone-be-bygones aren’t we one and the same,

Dealing with the hand we’ve been given.

Helping one another is the name of the game,

To live in love in this life that we’re living.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

Obsessed As A Culture

Obsessed as a culture,

Three hundred channels of voyeurism,

Crack to the masses for which there is no cure.

Our appetites are voracious,

The more they feed us

The more we swallow.

We are being dumbed down,

All in the name of entertainment.

Fifteen minutes of fame,

No talent required,

We buy into this formula.

Commonsense is on the decline,

We are no longer educationally superior,

Our kids instead strive to top the antics of “Jack Ass”

And long to live in the “Big Brother” house,

High aspirations indeed.

This is our future.

We welcome it with open arms

And our junk food appetites.

I guess we get what we deserve.

~

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Addiction (Shadorma)

Shop in Rovereto dedicated to books, art supplies and prints

Shop in Rovereto dedicated to books, art supplies and prints

Addiction–

One pleasurable

Or painful

For some–sport

Others use it to feed their muse

To read or create

 

Or maybe–

Acquire artwork

That one loves

A vision

As seen through another’s eye

That speaks to the heart

 

Love shopping

Or not love shopping

No matter

We all do

Fall under its heady spell

Once in a while

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

Prompt: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie – Shadorma Photo Prompt #7

 

What Is This Thing Mystical

What is this thing mystical?

One so oft used to determine one’s worth,

To discriminate,

To determine wisdom,

To justify foolishness,

Wasted on the young,

Marking the beginning,

Anticipating the end,

Setting milestones,

Telling us when to leave,

Removing individuality,

Segregating the masses,

Coming too slowly,

Wished to slow down,

Terrible early on,

Then sweet,

Forty old of youth,

Fifty young of old,

Then the precious metal of gold.

Why the stigma?

Why the worry?

This mystic–age,

It’s no different than its predecessor,

No different than its successor,

It’s just a number,

Like any other.

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Prompt: Jeremy’s Daily Challenge – Friday’s Threesome 9 May

Quote: Forty is the old age of youth, fifty is the youth of old age – Victor Hugo

 

Some Say It Is A Window Into The Soul

Some say it is a window into the soul,

But me…well, I don’t know

I run, I jump, I laugh and cajole

As though I’m putting on a show.

 

The youth in me knows not this bodies age,

Ignoring the aches and the pains.

Like a Mad Hatter on the Phantoms stage,

Tossing aside my horses reins.

 

Playing in the grass, flying kites high in the sky,

Living for just having fun.

Juvenile maybe, lets just say that I try,

Hoping for much longer from where I’d begun.

 

This is how I choose to live a fairytale life,

One of fullness, prosperity and joy.

Living without the stress and the mind numbing strife,

That so many chose to employ.

 

Then a look in the mirror reveals an inevitable truth,

That no one can run from their age.

Bags and wrinkles are not things of one’s youth,

As each year turns the next page.

 

In my minds eye I’m still the same person I was

O’ those many years gone by.

Only the blind would be ignorant of the cause,

No matter how hard they may try.

 

So the moral to this story is one I believe

To live in happiness and in peace.

Keep the child in your heart, never to cleave,

And your elation will surely increase.

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Prompt: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie – Fairytale Prompt #7

As The Moon Rises

As the moon rises and the sun bids a fond adieu,

As the final shafts of amber day fade to black,

There is a gentle stillness that overcomes earth and man,

One that’s existed since time began.

Our winged friends song falls on silent deaf ears,

Replaced by the somber tune of cricket and cicada.

The rustling of leaves ring vivid to the senses,

Once undetectable amongst the chaos of the day.

Even the lowly housefly finds solace in dusk

Vanishing from sight with nights approach.

Simple is this time where rest encroaches

Though absent of life it is not.

Those of nocturnal bend do rise,

As they live the fullest of lives amongst the shadows.

The lonesome and distant howl echoes in the night,

The song of the owl a signal to impending prey.

These embraced as a welcome tune

Sing me to sleep under starry sky.

Nature–peaceful in all its glory is my lover,

Holding me in her tender arms until we rise with the dawn,

To kiss the newest day.

~

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~