Tag Archives: prose

Love of the Word

Travel to cliffs of Scotland tall

Ancient cities with golden scroll

Coliseum of wonder your columns fall

Time, wind and rain have taken their toll

~

Fairytale lands with walkways of gold

Rabbits, a queen and Mad Hatters

Through Grimm and Poe the stories unfold

Whether Jack and his beanstalk does itt matter

~

Absorbed in Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

A cup of tea with Sherlock Holmes

Or Steinbeck’s exquisite Grapes of Wrath

When a Tree Grows in Brooklyn you’re never alone

~

Traveling around the world in 80 days

Digging treasure on an island deserted

Meeting the end in Moby Dick’s’ way

Though Scrooge’s demise is diverted

~

Dumas’ Musketeers are dashing them all

A letter of scarlet emblazoned

The howl of the wolf in the wild was called

Romeo and Juliet still amazes

~

The beauty of words in fiction, poem or prose

Allows travel to faraway lands

Mystery, adventure or as love stories show

The pricelessness of books in the hand

~

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

A Block a Day Keeps the Prose Away

Creativity eludes me,

Gathered up in the day-to-day minutiae,

I am spent.

Staring stone faced at the screen,

Cursor blinking in frustration,

Awaiting the stroke of genius that never comes.

Millions of ideas,

Swirling in my head like a cyclone,

Yet none coherent enough to put on the page.

I know this happens from time to time,

Call it writer’s block or lack of focus,

Call it what you will this makes it no less painful.

Lying in bed,

Staring at the ceiling,

Fragments of prose flash through my mind.

Exhausted, I close my eyes,

Shutting them out ’til morning,

Hoping to remember a sliver of drowsy brilliance.

Excitedly I do…

But sadly the brilliance seems tarnished,

Hazy and gray,

Unsuitable…or unworthy for print.

Looks like another day of drivel,

Meaningless, irrelevant scribbles,

Fortunately there is always tomorrow.

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.