Vision So Nearsighted

Vision so nearsighted,

Seeing only rock and sand,

Scorched earth under cloudless sky,

Beauty shrouded by its bleak exterior.

O’ but the wonder peered upon by birds,

A canvas painted by a masters hand.

Browns, blues, greens, intricate designs,

Such depth, the flowing lines,

Seemingly random from terra firma,

Showing purpose of design from above.

O’ the beauty missed with our limited perspective,

Entire lives spent seeing two steps ahead,

Ignorant of the lovely picture before us.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~


Cloudless Sky – A Shadorma

Cloudless sky,

Granite peaks part blue

Bright canvas.

This painting,

Brushed from an artists palette,

A true masterpiece.



Born of natures hand

Is flawless.

To compare

With the mortal works of man

Would be an insult.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~


Author’s Note: The Shadorma is a poetic form consisting of a six-line stanza (or sestet). The form is alleged to have originated in Spain. Each stanza has a syllable count of three syllables in the first line, five syllables in the second line, three syllables in the third and fourth lines, seven syllables in the fifth line, and five syllables in the sixth line (3/5/3/3/7/5) for a total of 26 syllables. A poem may consist of one stanza, or an unlimited number of stanzas (a series of shadormas).  The information above was from

Labors Of Love

Labors of love like a warm breeze caress,

Softening edges worn rough by duress,

Seeking to bleed by releasing the soul,

Preventing it from suffocating in tortured black hole.


Quill as my sword toward battle I go,

What awaits up ahead I do not yet know,

But brilliant or poor unique it must be,

When a mind is consoled and it’s spirit set free.


Words as a weapon through ink that is laid,

Or passion unleashed in love that’s forbade,

Perhaps shrouded in mystery with nary a clue,

Or cringing in darkness in terror we’re drew.


Poet’s imagine with the most subtle prose,

No subject off limits, as anything goes,

Photo or painting both classics of art,

One modern, one ancient, endeared by the heart.


What poison is picked to us matters not,

May last an eternity and ne’er be forgot,

That future generations might enjoy what we loved,

Knowing we’re remembered as we look down from above.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

Idle Hands

Idle hands do not an idle mind make,

For sitting in silence much effort does it take.

With unflappable thought the body grows more tired,

It is no easy feat to control synaptic fire.

When treated as sloth brain-work is mistaken,

Laziness it’s not, your logic is misshapen.

Without the strain of thought no greatness would exist,

No literature, no art, no inventions could persist.

So lest contemplation be treated as a waste,

You’re best to just say thank you with a smile on your face.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~