| by brian francis Time has passed since you’ve gone Life just isn’t the same. I sit alone to watch the dawn, yet, your memories remain. The path now seems more uphill, the pace now slowed to a walk. Your face, your touch I remember still. Oh, just to hear you talk. My time has come to walk alone Yet, your presence I still feel. In the memories of life we’ve sown Our love is still so real. Copyright ©2020 brian francis |
Tag: poem
Makeup
by brian francis
Could it have been
Something I said
Did or didn’t do
That makes your face contort
Or is there
Some other reason
That you are wearing
Anger like a rouge
Is there still a place
Within you
Where I can make you smile
Or has that husk
Fallen away
Shriveled up
Died of neglect
Like a forgotten flower
On a shelf
Is there still a chance
That we can “be”
The dreamers we once were
Or does that parity
No longer parse
In this newly
Painted
Rendition of you
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
Ebb and Flow
by brian francis
Like a changing tide you come in and out
As you shift the sands of my mind
Leaving patterns in your wake with your
give and take – Every action is by design
I tumble and toss as you move around
I laugh and I cry and I sing
If I try to touch you your direction shifts
As the hermit crab strides the beach
Yet I sit and I wait ’til the tide comes in
And I embrace you when you arrive
Only to watch you go away again
Every action is by design.
Copyright © 2020 brian francis
Near The Cold Grey Sky
by brian francis
In the woods I hid
and watched the trespassers
weave among the forested slopes
on a winter day.
Birds screamed at their passing,
and squirrels scurried
through the wilted underbrush
and blankets of leaves.
Alone, I peered down
from the ancient blind
left by some merciless hunter,
becoming my refuge
from the chilly sorrows
of a mislaid sense of self-worth
Cold and chill
crept along my spine
drafting up my legs
and un-tucked shirt.
I watched strangers
dance beneath the barren limbs
of slumbering trees,
children dragging their parents
with words of coaxing
deeper into the resting forest’s expanse
seeking some unknown reward
for their noisy and bounding effort
beneath my refuge
among the twisted branches
near the cold grey sky.
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
Desert Storm
by brian francis
I sat alone in the rain,
lightening, casting strobe like shadows all around.
The clouds, reaching down and touching upon me,
sending joyous shivers across my being.
Worshiping the storm and receiving its blessings;
awed by the beauty, the strength, the wonder.
Swirling clouds, imitating forms in the sky.
Thunderheads, rising to their flat tops,
before falling, violently, back to earth
in the cold burst, of what are monsoon.
These, the storms of desert evenings,
rise in the afternoons, of summer’s days.
Giving life to all of the desert’s children, in turn.
The saguaro stands majestically, poised on eternity.
Its crown of color open,
worn proudly in the silhouette
of lightning’s flash.
Copyright © 2020 brian francis
God’s Face
| by Brian Francis Life abounds as nature’s gambles find a way breathing in deep a full embrace with relish oceans with the flavor of life in solution wash in waves stirring the margin a beckoning call forests rife with gifts of love from a caring mother a table in full regalia in constant harvest gather it and honor the sacrifice of nature more a sign of respect than an act of worship the gifts of the cornucopia of life for us. Yet all of this is not enough as stars calling offer a promise of fulfillment yet unattained As dreams drive us to peer deeper to dream more to imagine a tomorrow of our own making A future where we reach out and touch god’s face in doing so we become aware of the reflection in the mirror Compassion’s tears wash away the self image created delusions shatter bearing their many faceted falsehoods painted upon our souls while dreaming our dreams Copyright © 2020 brian francis |
The Mausoleum
By brian francis
The gravel grinds as you walk the path
following the ankle high picket fencing.
The path delineated clearly – straight.
the grass groomed to perfection,
with little warnings. to stay off.
planted beyond the picket barrier.
Reading the words and remembering
what was said about the other side
Woody said, “it didn’t say nothin’ ”
now that’s the side for you and me.
The building is cold, monolithic, quiet,
like a temple of old it is solid built.
Even soft soles echo walking the isles,
my boots seem to clamor with every step.
But no one complains their sleep is eternal.
Candles burning by a cubby like around a saint
someone’s enduring devotion on display.
I look to see if tears have stained the floor
as I stroll deeper into the temple of loss
finally finding the nook and the panel.
Staring at the name, I blur and place my hand on it.
The cold raised letters burn into my soul,
sorrow fills my being, and I mourn, I cry.
Here in this place for eternity; to wait.
Three generations and yet we mourn
when will the visits end, the nook grow dusty-
the tears stop flowing for a soul so long lost.
The walk away is somehow refreshing
carrying away “life” a gift, all the more precious.
The grass caresses my steps as I leave.
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
In Opposition
by brian francis
People scream in rage and anger
claiming the right to defend their ways
with hatred as their loudest banter
they march and scream in a craze
Others stand to repel the onslaught
to shine a light on horror’s salute
they rise in waves of fury and conviction
rejecting the message of the jack boot
As words of anger and opposition
scream back and forth across the line
threats of angry violent intentions
swim and dance among the brine
The back and forth increase the tenor
the tempest whirling strains its chain
with violence being the final measure
rage released cries for pain
meted- out with joyous pleasure
Laughing while it does its work
Horror, moves among the people
as Death takes souls with a jerk
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
Sonoran Monsoon
by brian francis
When rainbows cast across the sky
Like great and colorful, flying buttresses
For the storms of summer’s evenings
When Lightning flashes bold and bright
Alighting clouds and singing nature’s roar
Reaching to the ground; a screaming hiss
When the air you breathe seems alive
With the vitality of heroic clashes
As the clouds swirl and toss above
That is when the desert comes alive
The monsoon calls in ancient song
As life unfolds embracing the storm
The nurturing of the gods gives birth
As flowers reaching grasp at the sun
And all life in the desert lives brightly
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
The Eastern Patio
By brian francis
The sun still hidden paints the eastern sky.
Feathers rustle with a waking shake.
The coolness draws a shiver.
Cupping the ceramic mug
warming palms and fingers.
Sleep still beckons, a siren’s song,
whispers taunt a weary gasp.
Sipping and pondering my day
to the trickle of an artificial stream.
Stillness pervades this hour,
quiet thoughts drift through the mind.
Bats seen returning to roost,
dance among the trees of the orchard.
Down to the last drop
of french press brewed Kona.
Refill.
Just in time to see the first rays
as Helios blesses nature’s beings.
Even the trees turn their leaves
to greet him and his warming touch,
as he bathes the waking world.
A glowing moment.
The chirps and cries of the birds
soon joined by the beeps and chirps
of the electronic devices ever-present.
Texts, emails arrive, the morning gathering.
I hesitate to look and lose this moment
to the coming day’s chores and duties;
but as the neighbor’s cat rounds the corner
the parrots scream a fear-filled warning.
The cat enjoys his affect and strolls
slowly, as he displays his power.
The reveille announcing my day.
Thankfully, the neighbors rarely complain,
but, still I release the hound.
The cat skedaddles and peace returns–
my day’s begun.
Copyright © 2020 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 