Author Archives: Dom DiFrancesco

What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas

Radiant neon,

Red, blue, green, white,

A rainbow of color,

Scorching the retina,

A sun that never sets.

Bells, whistles, catcalls, cheers,

Mixed with alcohol and cash,

Money talks,

Life savings optional.

Short skirts and translucent dresses,

Too much stuffed into too little,

Margaritas and sex,

Perfect together,

If the price is right.

On the strip…crowds,

Everyone looking to score,

Card flippers peddling porn,

Homeless looking for coin,

On more chance to turn things around,

Too bad it doesn’t work that way.

Freak show on Fremont,

Cover bands and booze,

Love beads and striptease,

Cross dressers and assless chaps,

Crowds like sardines,

Crammed to see the latest 80’s bands,

Middle aged balding groupies,

Headbanging to regain their youth,

Oh to be 50 again.

A show in itself,

Las Vegas,

There’s a reason for the saying…

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Drowning

Sadness,

Cast like a net over me,

Threatening to pull me under.

Staring out the window as if hypnotized,

Cars pass,

Wind blows through the trees,

Pedestrians carry on with their day,

The sun is shining,

Still I see nothing and feel everything.

This unexplainable innervation,

Shows up like an unexpected visitor,

Uninvited and unwanted,

Unshakable.

Bombarding me with questions and doubts,

Hiding my head in the sand,

Trying to bury the incessant noise,

Unsuccessful, I succumb to the torment,

Tired,

I find little consolation in it’s ephemeral nature,

Its no less painful,

Seems no less eternal,

Leaves me no less hopeless.

With painted smile,

I wander aimlessly through the day,

An observer of my surroundings,

Unable to participate,

Handicapped by sorrow,

Handcuffed to my emotions.

Viscerally I know this will pass,

This realization is all that sustains me,

A lifeline tossed to a drowning man,

Grabbing hold with all my strength,

Waiting to be dragged to shore,

Into the waiting arms of sanity.

Buddy Can You Spare A Dime

By D. R. DiFrancesco

The alarm rings,

Pastie mouthed, joints aching,

Swinging my legs off the bed,

Damn arthritis,

The cold is killing me.

I rub my eyes to wipe away the blur,

Standing in line to use the bathroom,

It wasn’t always this way.

Looking over my shoulder,

Bedroll, pair of pants and a shirt,

All I have left to my name,

Insignificant to most,

Something to fight for.

A hot meal,

Maybe the last for the day,

An assembly line of the wretched,

Like dogs fighting over scraps of meat,

Degrading and demoralizing.

Back to the street,

Bedroll under my arm,

Wearing everything I own.

More stares,

People pass by,

Eye contact would make me human,

I was an accountant for God’s sake,

I had a wife,

Left when times got tough,

I have kids,

They think Daddy’s gone away.

No surprise work is hard to come by,

One set of cloths,

Infrequent showers,

Unshaven,

Politicians want us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps,

What bootstraps,

I wouldn’t hire me?

Panhandling,

For money, food, drink, and the occasional odd job,

Pennies, rocks, and insults are thrown my way,

I’m not a bum,

I’m you, one hospital bill away,

One hospital bill and you are me.

Maybe I’ll get a hot meal tonight,

Shelter,

A warm bed,

Maybe I won’t,

Look in the mirror,

Who do you see?

To Dine Alone

Coffee black and strong,

Gripped between cigarette stained fingers,

Making small talk,

How ’bout the weather?

Did ya see the news?

Filler to pass the time.

Old men hunched over cold eggs and bacon,

Swilling bottomless cups of mud,

Chain smoking Lucky’s,

Melancholy in the swirling cloud of second-hand smoke.

Each one has a story,

Exaggerated tales of loves lost,

Fables of misfortune and triumph,

White lies cast as bait to a sympathetic crowd.

“Sweetie”, a patron’s cry,

Barking for a check, menu, or refill,

Significant in this sea of anonymity,

Otherwise silently ignored.

The revolving door,

Room for one more lonely transient,

One more cup of thick black coffee,

Held between nicotine stained fingers,

Another tall tale wrapped in white lies,

Told to another friend,

Scarcely more than a stranger,

Just another forlorn castaway,

Adrift on a sea of tribulation.

 

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.