What is my calling
To speak for those that are mute
Injecting logic
In this illogical world
Fighting the way I know how
With pen and paper
The written is the sword
I wield with honor
Far mightier than the tongue
Brandished til the day I die
.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
A Girl Named Cord by Briana Vedsted will be published on Amazon.com July 31st, 2013 as both a paperback and an eBook.
Stuck in a rut, a ditch,
Then again, maybe a canyon.
I yell and my words return
Echo after echo, a ricochet.
Each time I try to find my voice,
It rebounds a fainter rendering of itself.
Reminiscent of a story,
One told ad nauseam until it is no longer heard.
Story after story,
Poem after poem,
Groundhog day.
Where does the voice hide?
How does it break out of it’s own mediocrity?
It calls in hushed tones,
Knocks at the threshold waiting to be let in,
Though somehow I’m too late to answer.
So I wait, peering through the peephole,
For the sound of my voice,
To knock on the door again,
This time I’m ready.
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Image Credit: sportschump.net
Creativity
Trying to break through this void
Where words elude me
She has left my side before
Returning in her own time
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
By D. R. DiFrancesco
~~~~~~~~
What passes for art, for art’s sake
Be it brush or pen or pottery, the medium, no difference does it make
Neither beauty nor disgust for the creation dissuade
From the quest to enrich, enlighten and persuade
Its been said that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
This truth I envelop even more as I’ve grown older
What is crude or refined who’s to say what’s in taste
Rash judgements have been made at first glance and in haste
Powerful words and the mastery of the artists broad stroke
Portend to convey what the mind’s eye can invoke
Whether abstract or classical, our views may be divergent
Feelings resurrected and emotions rise most urgent
Thought provocation is the design of the muse
Masterfully manipulating all the senses that we use
To see and to hear things in a different light
Molded in a way that we hadn’t thought right
For better or for worse this is the artists intent
To affect you deep down though its this you strive to prevent
Whether its the beauty of a flower or sensations of unbridled love
What we hope to instill are the images and feelings gifted from above
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.
Dom DiFrancesco 