Farewell Knights Templar

Image Credit: wunderground.com

Image Credit: wunderground.com

The blood curdling scream from the dungeon below,

Made John pray to God for the hangman’s gallows.

This soldier of God stripped of vestments so pure,

Now nameless and faceless a test he was sure.


I’ve done what was asked by king, country and Pope

In exchange for a promise to Heaven elope.

If I fall in battle to those savages in the east,

To sling, bow and arrow or some other horrid beast.


Instead I’m betrayed by the kinsman I protect;

By cowards and fools those insignificant specks.,

Hiding behind crown whilst I lay on this rack,

Fingers and toes broke while they flail on my back.


These charges of heresy are baseless and false,

I’ll deny to my death, to my last beating pulse.

Phillip IV King of motherland France,

Cooked up this scheme devious to embolden his stance.


Our riches and land to be his at all costs,

No matter the lives of the Templar that are lost.

Castle and fortress captured by the crown,

Confiscated before Pope Clement could resound.


This murderous thief will be judged before God,

Without royal finements, naked and unshod.

Surely he’ll be banished to Hades for his crimes,

Whilst I’ll be looking down on his torment for all times.


Justice will be served though draw and quarter is my fate,

I long for the Lord at Saint Peter’s pearly gate.

For the righteous will receive promised Heaven’s just due,

Whilst river of fire awaits souls of evil to be threw.


Soon my dear comrades in paradise I will join,

Those of you who’ve gone before by the heathen on the coin.

We’ll reap our sweet vengeance on this coward of the throne,

He’ll burn in Hell, consumed by fire, for eternity alone.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

This Must Be Paradise

The band playing,

Something Caribbean and acoustic.

Cigarette smoke swirling,

Thick and dreamy,

Like a storm cloud overhead.

Reminiscent of Bogie and Bacall.

Tropical breezes,

Twisted by bamboo fans,

Deliberate spin.

Ice tinkles as it slides to the bottom of the empty glass.

Another scotch,

Single malt on the rocks.

Humidity in the air,

Sweat streams like the gulf tide.

Cotton shirt,

A combination of moisture and salt.

The pattern of the tropics.

Surf sounds,

Rolling gently,

Up the sugar sand shore.

Moon glistening,

Off the albino caps.

Palm fronds,

Softly rustle high overhead,

Breaking the silhouette,

Of the tangerine moon.

There is no place I’d rather be.

Tropical breeze,

Kettle drums,

Smell of the ocean,

And single malt,

Surely this must be…

Heaven on earth.

~~ D. R. DiFrancesco ~~