writing – 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

Stumbling Through

by brian francis

Seeking out the source of inspiration
I found myself in a deep dry well.
Nothing there could offer stimulation.
So alone I built myself a living hell.

Hidden in dusty volumes: past consideration.
Doodles lining margins, once passing time.
Scanning ancient notes with contemplation
Finding only aggregate no thoughts to bind.

In frustration I lashed out against creation
Yet again my drunken muse does not respond.
So alone I sit in my silent meditation,
Imagining the banks of Walden Pond.

Then gently, without notice, sleep overtakes me.
The day then fades away and soon is gone.
Dreams, torment, and chase; will not let me be.
A restless soul who fights to carry on.

When morning comes and wakes my sleeping sorrow
Another day to seek and find that, what I need.
A turn of phrase or a thought which I might borrow.
Anything that will help me germinate the seed.

The Bleeding

by brian francis

I sit and dream, and a song is born,
The words cry out for attention.
Of passion’s praise, or loss’s mourn,
Or simply a point of contention.

Compare the eyes to distant light,
movement to grace’s wonder.
whisper the story of a hero’s plight
or the calamity of evil’s plunder.

A voice to echo for a thousand years
it seems is most writer’s goal,
Left unread, of our greatest fears;
These pages of our soul.

Copyright ©2021 brian francis

Free Verse

By brian francis

They say
it is a freedom
that allows unfettered control.
Words cast upon the page
in their rawest state;
the flow born of the poet’s seasoned spirit,
etched upon his soul
by the Muse as he sleeps.

Craft is not lost in the clutter of words
spoken upon the page,
they cluster in reasoned strophes
Resisting rhyme
and the metered standard.
Instead:
they dance like a leaf in the wind;
tumbling and bounding,
In the flow of life embraced.
An unrestricted celebration!

Chasing Inspiration

by brian francis

Pages, windows open to the world
I send them out to tease and tickle
A message or an observation
Casting them into the winds to
distant eyes

they dance on the tongues
and spill into minds,
nudging, provoking
inspiring an internal response
annoying, persisting, affecting.

“you’ve made me cry” they write
their tears my happy reward
let them cry great rivers for compassion

Rhymes – sometimes I can’t find them
so I walk on the other side of the street
a different rhythm becomes my strut
a feeling of freedom
freedom from form and confinement
stanzas become strophes
meter becomes flow
as the garments of creation are changed
to the colorful aspects of language
painted in poetic prose.

It feels like magic to wield the pen
to cast the lines in black and white
knowing readers will chant them aloud
to find, their, deeper meaning
in the words cast upon the page.

By brian francis

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