Somewhere in my brain
A novel waits to be born
Playing hide and seek
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Tag Archives: stories
A Brothel Of Sorts (A Dirty Little Poem)
A brothel of sorts–
This cesspool of words
Each a whore waiting for its next trick.
Johns–
Sentences,
Paragraphs,
Stories,
Poems,
Cheap and dirty,
Looking for a little love and affection.
Through the two-way mirror
Voyeurs read the filthy act;
Drooling over each thrust of the pen,
Until the climax
When the page collapses
In its ink soaked ecstasy,
Ah…such a sweet release.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Once A Home – A Tanka
It once was a home
Nothing but rubble remains
What are it’s secrets
If only stone and wood talked
Oh…the stories they could tell
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Stories – A Tanka
Stories fill my mind
Plot and character consume
Writing is a drug
No less addictive than crack
and no less of a life changer
~
~~ Dominic R DiFrancesco ~~
Elder Embrace
By D. R. DiFrancesco
~~~~~~
Black hair gone thin and gray
Creases like dry riverbeds map the landscape
Winding effortlessly south
Either due to age or gravity or both
Dark olive skin, soft tautness lost to the years
Tired eyes struggle to catch the light of day
Once clear as crystals now foggy and uncertain
Reminiscent of the mist that envelops San Diego Bay
Memories of youthful virility invoked smiles and stories
Tales etched with vivid language
Language and reference not correct in todays world
Friends and acquaintances identified by race, creed and color
Shocked and amazed erupting in uncomfortable laughter
A likely product of the prejudice thrown at your feet
First breath drawn at the turn of the last century
Born of a race not so easily accepted
Unkind names and slurs labeling an entire lineage
Times had changed leaving you behind
Floundering as if in seizure
Living in an era that was foreign
Still there was no shame, no offense or ill intention
No defense levied for your words and actions
None was needed, none was desired
Age and time granted societal clemency
Few were left who lived the history
Fewer still survive to remember
Relegation to the page is approaching with haste
Embrace them while the opportunity affords
Cherish the time shared and knowledge imparted
Passing it down to the generations that follow
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.
Dom DiFrancesco 