Fields of Gettysburg

O’ obelisk, granite, grey, etched in sorrow,

Not so aged standing firm amongst the tall grasses;

Ne’er swaying though battered by wind and storm and history of war.

Your fields and gently rolling hills show no remnants of ball and shot,

Rivers of blood flowing across riverless plain.

The living perished here as surely as the dead those days,

Pitting brother against brother, for many, the reason elusive,

For honor, family, country, their fellow man, it matters not

As corpses lay bloodied, broken,less than whole.

Fortifications of man were little match for hell’s fury,

Breaking limbs and spirit with each fiery volley.

Friends, who shared hot coffee and conversation over warming fire…gone,

Gazing into the heavens through milky eyes,

Awash in dirt and blood, they are in pain no more.

Thousands upon thousands scattered haphazard,

Turning once green fields scarred and crimson.

Claims that those that lived and died still walk with us persist,

Destined to relive, in clips repeating, horrors of life in death.

In the quiet, amongst the trees rustle,

Smell of smoke and sulfur, sound of shot, fatal yells may still be heard.

Yet with daylights glow the grasses wave in silent salute,

Alone, but ne’er lonesome,

Watched o’er by the towering granite sentry,

Etched with the names and dreams

…Of the fallen.


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

For You

I bleed for you,

When you cry I cry for you,

Tears that stain my soul,

Not out of sympathy alone,

Not out of pity,

Not out of martyrdom,

But out of purest love

True and genuine.

Ingrained like roots buried deep,

Twisting, wrapping around my bones;

Without them I would starve,

Without you I would wither,

An impossibility.

We are sown of perfect seed;

Ordained by the universe,

Bound by what cannot be bought,

It must be grown,



Nurtured to maturity,

Protected until the end of time–

I am yours.


By: Dominic R. DiFrancesco


To Her With Love

By D. R. DiFrancesco

Do not look me in the eyes my love,

For my intentions are seldom pure as a dove.

In constant labor to prove my worth are I,

Lest I fall from your grace wither and die.

With a gentle stoke of my cheek you reassure me,

That I am all you ever hoped that I could be.

Still I fret that my offering is not enough,

Insecurity has aged me wrinkled rough.

Yet you look upon me as if youthful and spry,

With a devil-may-care twinkle in your eyes.

And that come hither smile you so oft display,

Leaves me breathless as always in night or day.

Unworthy am I to be held in esteem,

Yet with each day I awake to find this isn’t a dream.

Should this not be what love is about,

I ponder and pray that it’s never in doubt.

Maybe, my love, in all the world you’re unique,

To have fallen for this fool with all others you could seek.

If this somehow by irony be true,

No one else could I have cherished any more than you.


By D. R. DiFrancesco

A single candle,

A dimly lit room,

Your face,

A flickering mix of light and shadow,

Still I would know you anywhere.

My fingers trace your silhouette,

I recognize every curve,

Committed to memory as if they were my own,

A map of the life we have lived together.

Is this not what love is?

Two souls conjoined,

Hearts beating in like rhythms,

Indistinguishable from one another.

Yet we are opposites,

In nearly every way dissimilar,

Inexplicably attracted though,

Balancing on a razors edge.

You turn to me,

The warmth of your breath caresses my ear,

Your tender moist kiss envelops me,

At once I am yours and you are mine.

We are one.