Revolution


By brian francis

You enslaved a world and called it empire.
While the sluts and bastards,
you worshipped as kings and queens,
toyed with the peoples of other lands.
Bleeding them dry and beating them down,
stealing generation after generation
from the emerald isle,
to feed your war machine;
starving a nation into submission.
But, never did they submit

Instead they fought you in your own streets,
defeating you in your own game.
After, three hundred, years of torture
they stand free and proud with a future bright;
while you cluster in the tea rooms
still playing at the game of empire,
though you have nothing now, but memories.

Piece by piece, you were driven out,
Losing your precious hold on America;
Seeing traitors, in the heroes of revolution.
Piss on George! Piss on his memory!
The tainted inbred bloodline
to hell with the lot.
To hell I say!

Terrence MacSwiney won his battle,
even though it cost his life.
Brixton was watched by the world,
as one man used honor as a tool
to defeat his captors, and win against all odds;
‘Enduring The Most’ for his ‘Principles Of Freedom’.

The empire is gone, though pride might remain,
it is a stagnant cesspool in your soul.
Just a distant dream of what once was,
as you wriggle in the death throws of independence.
Joining with the other nations of yesterday
In a vain attempt at staving off tomorrow.
The union dragging you down into it’s own mire.
We have won you are defeated.
We are free.

Copyright ©2021 brian francis

Crack

By brian francis


Some people think it is all about the ball
the cue ball or the eight ball even the nine
while the ball is pool’s most numerous asset
it simply follows nature’s laws to exhaustion
It lays, it waits to receive its equal and opposite
its course laid in with a knock and a ricochet
it travels its path friction wearing it down
its trajectory always forward always true
So what is so special about all of that
What makes it so much better than felt


Felt’s hairy fingers grab and pull at the ball
slowing it, dragging at its progression
the field of felt, slates concealing dress
and bumpers wear felt its armor it seems
enduring even the severest of blows
without offering the merest contention
brushed just right it’s a beautiful thing
ordered, cleaned of the smallest deceit
a racks ready order, rolled to find the spot
to rise up and stand back for the break


A chalking in blue to add grip to the tip
and a sliding almost masturbation
angle selected the cue ball finds its spot
and rests waiting for its final direction
the cue lays itself in the crook of the hand
or on the crenellation of the knuckles
and engaging the stroke with precision
its strength with a crack strikes a blow
its goal in its sights it flies straight and true
into the rack, causing a mess of confusion


Copyright © 2021 brian francis

Nocturnes

By brian francis

When the stars advance to take the sky
Pushing mightily the sun into the ground
Shadows come alive and rise in the night
To haunt those weary in body and mind
To challenge the sanity of thoughtfulness
Realized between the sounds and illusions
Of perception’s innuendo implied

The blaze of clouds falls into the purple hues
Shimmering reflections, frights awakening
Whispering into thoughts; unrealized they worry
Like shadows unseen in the darkness
Dancing joyfully, worshiping Nyx or Apep
Shrouding the world in their embrace
Of darkness hiding; the shadow opposing light.


Copyright © 2021 brian francis

The Story Teller

By brian francis

Up by the place the old willow grows,
where the river drifts silently past,
there is an old house back in the woods
where hoot owls make your heart beat fast.
And if you stand by the river’s edge,
where the cornfield meets the groves,
you can see up past the old willow tree
two big glowing eyes and a nose.

The eyes are the windows of that old house
the nose is its run-down porch
and all of my friends, when we were young,
would march up there with a torch.
Around the side where the woodpile stands
we would all grab a log for our chairs,
then carrying them to the front of the house
we’d argue about who’d climb the stairs.

Then whoever it was who lost that day
would slowly ascend to the top,
to knock three times and turn and run
back to their log and flop.
Then we’d all wait for the rattle and squeak
of the door swinging open wide.
Out of the house, Mary would come,
her black, green-eyed, cat by her side.

She’d slowly go to her old rocking chair
where the cat would leap up to her lap,
and she would rub it’s arching back
until it laid down for its nap.
Some would say she was an old witch,
as old as the waves of the sea,
and that if she gave you the evil eye
you’d slowly turn into a tree.

Silent at first caressing her cat
she’d rock in her old rocking chair,
but soon she’d start to whisper a tale
of a place most distant and fair.
For hours we’d sit and wait on her words,
the stories were never the same;
of heroes and kings and dragons and things,
of magic and virtue and fame.

Then when it was time for us to go
she’d tell us a different tale;
of witches, goblins and scary things
our faces would turn all pale.
We could feel the haunting and eeriness,
our skin would crawl and twitch.
We’d go running home fast as we could
knowing that she was a witch.


Copyright ©2021 brian francis

Verdant Reflections

by brian francis

It’s my favorite time – take a walk in the sunshine
Wet your feet in the ocean’s rolling waves
Sing your favorite song – sing without inhibition
Let the world hear just what you’ve got to say
Find a forest tall — Take a stroll with the timber
See the speckled light as it is reaching down
In a river fresh – clean off that superior feeling
Remember we are part of Gaea’s loving plan
Lay your gifts humbly down beneath the great tree
Cherish the blessings of every breeze
And for the sky above– that life-giving shining
Ra his name for eons or so they say
It’s my favorite time – take a walk in his sunshine
Living as thankfully as I can every day


Copyright © 2021 brian francis

The Universe

By brian francis

Nothing existed before the moment
When spark was put to the thought of it all
But then in a flash of brilliant creation

The kneading and mixing of realities soup
Time started counting keeping its measure
Expansion allowed the sky to evolve

Clouds of becoming billow and glow
Stars ignited creating the elements we use
Casting them out in stellar death throes

Gathered together with water and stone
Life’s queer concoctions awash in the margins
Give birth to a plethora of options untold

The blossom unfolds and bathes in the glory
And soon life, looks back up, out into it all
Seeks answers to questions beyond the horizon

Attempting to pull back, remove, histories pall
Still dreaming with wonder; those very first seconds
Debating then, if intent had a hand in it all



Copyright © 2021 brian francis

We are America

By brian francis

As I watch the flag flying and waving in the wind
My thoughts are left imagining all of the places it has been
The many fields of worldly conflict, that it was raised above
Embracing fallen heroes coming home wrapped in its love
The songs about that banner and the colors in its weave
Thoughts of war’s prisoners and tears for their reprieve
Inspire pride in its meaning in the foundations of our land
From the peaks of those purple mountains to the ocean’s sand
The mix of so many nations brings a strength to our resolve
Where freedom sings unfettered in our praises of it all

The pendulum of our democracy swings in balanced arcs
Progressing as intended since the forefather’s made their marks
Declaring our right to freedom and defining our national plan
Bringing disparate peoples together as one; as American
Our steps have sometimes stumbled from whim or avarice
Our gaze has sometime faltered as we stood at the precipice
And yes, we’ve failed our directives and in the beauty of the plan
We’ve found ourselves corrected – the constitution’s reprimand
Those arcs have a natural progression the simple beauty of design
For love and in allegiance, praise and devotion I claim her mine


Copyright ©2021 brian francis

Rumbling

By brian francis

When I woke up this morning
I saw rainclouds on the horizon
A truly dreary dawning
I even tried to close my eyes again

the smell of coffee brewing
Drew me from the bed
I stumbled over the clothes we’d strewn there
And laughed at the curses I’d said

Cause everything’s alright
It’s only storming outside
Is it just the roaring thunder
That makes me tremble inside

Here we have peace and quite
To watch each other’s eyes
To wonder with anticipation
Through all the truths and lies

A foray into memories
All clouded by their distance in time
Perceptions individual as fingerprints
Causing storm clouds to rise

Is everything alright
Is it only storming outside
Is it really the roaring thunder
That’s making me twist up inside

The winds of resentment blew
Carrying your words to my ears
A gust of petty jealousy threw,
to the side, All of my fears

And then as anger raged
I felt passion subside
And all of those crazy desires
Were blown up into the skies

Now everything is alright
The storm has broken
And I can see the light
at the door- one last kiss goodbye

Copyright ©2021 brian francis

Robes of Tyranny

By brian francis

With words inspiring beliefs unreal
Tainted considerations presented as fact.
He called them to his side to gather, reel,
And he dressed in the garb of the martyr,
Crying his accusations at the roiling crowd.
Girding them for action he aimed their attentions,
And drew back the bow with a flurry of noble intentions.
He promised that he would be there at their side.

He pleaded their loyalty to this appointed cause,
Colored and christened hiding seditions gleam.
He drew them along releasing the leash,
he turned and went back to his thrown.
He watched as America suffered his grief.
Celebrating the cracking of liberties panes.
Joyous he laughed as America cried.
He’d finally donned the robes of tyranny.


Copyright © 2021 brian francis

The Tobacco Barn

by brian francis

The farm lane was tall with weeds.
the tracks for tires, worn ruts,
parted by the tall grass, dancing
on the breezes of remembrance.
The barn was shedding its skin of paint,
flake by flake, curling away.
The boards still clung to the frame;
though the doors hung precariously,
leaning away from their hinges–
Pulling at the walls with all of their strength.
Barn owls and swallows claimed the rafters
screaming and bounding from beam to beam.
Dust swirled, and drifted in the shafts of light
shining through exposed ribs in the roof.
Where the slates had released their hold
taking to the skies in the storms of summer,
to shatter on the ground, becoming only stones.
A tree rising from the center of a broken floor
reaching for the sky with all of its will.
Protected from the harshness of the world outside,
it still, yet, tried to break free of its prison.
Mulberries stain the floor beneath it.


Copyright ©2021 brian francis