poet – Wordsmith: At The Forge

Creation’s Dance

By brian francis

In the morning’s early moments
When the sun begins to rise
Shadows start to coalesce
Beneath the purple skies
Birds begin their songs of love
A chorus as old as time
Breezes sway the mighty trees
As a poet seeks out rhyme

Words dance upon the tongue
In a graceful metered churn
Reflections of life’s embrace
the soul’s smoldering burn
wisps of life’s experiences
gleam within his eyes
as words are cast upon the page
in jumbled mixed up lines

The rhythm of these moments
Drift in eddied swirls
Like shifting sands creation brings
A string of precious pearls
Verses made with care and love
comedic or wise and sage
waiting there in black and white
For the turning of the page

Bewilderment

By brian francis

What is it you just said
it makes no sense to me?
It sounds
as though there should
be meaning,
but the words
seem to fight for attention
rather than work together
to convey your intent.

What did you mean
with this complex construction?
It leaves me lost
as though in a fog;
a morphemic haze,
grasping
at some unknown idea
which is deftly avoiding me.
Did you toss your words upon a page
and shuffle them about
Or are you missing the point of language—
the expression of idea…

Copyright © 2021 brian francis

Curried Contrivance

By brian francis

I have never been a poet who can scream their poetic words
from a stage. I am the poet who sits alone in a darkened room
mulling over ideas like a cow chewing its cud. Only to spew
them upon a page and massage them into a preferred arrangement.
Stream of thought, what the hell does that mean;
if it isn’t, stream of thought, how does it form.
Ahh, form, form is no matter, constraints released still sing a sorrowful song

But then again

If rules contrive to blind and bind
construction and structure contain
Meter dictates the measure of time
And sings of itself in its fullest refrain

To step without stumble this prance
To worry the mind, each step a dance
The feet and the steps show the way
words simply carry the message we say

birds whisper to me and threaten my flesh
if I don’t pet and praise them, I’m living in fear
they make me attend them – expect me to jump
they whisper their threats their mouth on my ear

The dogs all are cowards just lying about
The birds have them scared hiding their tails
I delayed my attention just a moment or so
Now blood dripping splatters and trails

By brian francis

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