What Lies On Distant Shores

What lies on distant shores,

Buckets, pigeon holes, troughs for segregation.

Language, dress, birthplace do not an enemy make.

Where came this bitter misdirection?

Religion, culture, song, dance,

These are things of man’s creation.

Strip naked man and woman–

Lay them bare of their mortal inventions.

Confiscate their language, dress, birthplace,

Expropriate their religion, culture, song, dance,

Take all they have of this world;

What have they left?

Blood and skin and bone;

That which crumbles with inevitable death.

Hopes and dreams, emotions;

intangibles that define humanness.

Air, food, water, shelter;

That which sustains us.

Boundaries of man hold no sway over these.

We are but one species,

Born and consumed in life,

Until the day we return home

To the dust from whence we came.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~


Look Into The Past – A Tanka

Look into the past

To see what your future holds

Living in pictures

You are one of your parents

This is inevitable


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

*Authors Note: I wrote this one not to necessarily imply that one’s personality is the same as one of your parents, but that your physical appearance, hand motions and/or speech patterns are likely to resemble those of at least one of your parents.  My wife told me the other day how much I stand, sit, motion with my hands (I’m Italian so that is inevitable) and how some of my physical traits are exactly like those of my father.  Sometimes I can even see it myself.  As I get older, these traits seem to become more exaggerated   Since I only see my parents about once per year, I guess it must be in our DNA.  It is likely that if you think about this you can see some of these things in yourselves.  Its just something that I found both humorous and fascinating.

Unwelcome To Our Shores

Burqa, Dashiki, headscarf, turban,

Clothing nor traditions should fear instill.

Forgetting we are children of the melting pot,

Sprawling roots of Sicily, Belfast, Juarez, Berlin,

Many smaller port-of-call,

Spat on by bigots,

Held in contempt.

Amnesia plagued memory lost their father’s land,

Nothing has been learned o’er these many years,

Only the quarry has changed,

The slurs, the stares, the vindictive wit,

Disparate but analogous,

Yet none-the-less degrading.

Unwelcoming the huddled masses with open arms,

Seeing terror in every foreign face,

Like fools believing the rhetoric,

Stereotyping and profiling,

Demonizing difference.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~