Ponderance of Joy

What is joy, delight?
For delight is but distraction
Escapement of life

Delight is but pleasure
Physically received
But mentally perceived
A reaction of body to outer stimuli

What is joy, delight?
When in delight
Man joy perceives
The bliss that comes
Ah joy it must be…

I look around me
What do I see…
What do I find that brings joy to me?
Not gifts not things not coin none of thee
But sharing of life with people loving me

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poem by Francois Hoon
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Search For The Divine

Words are few to describe the gentle crackling of an early dawn
When dark turns to life in a crisp new bristling
When enthused winged creatures stir away the nightly yawn
With sounds of verve on green growth moist’ning
Oh the marvel of passion that fills
When the root of beauty pierce senses and the heart stills

When in the midst of those who speak with crudeness
With tongues dragging forlorn in the slums of mind
From mouths that leak into bits of lewdness
I yearn to places apart from the residue of such kind
To the marvel of passion that fills
When the root of beauty pierce senses and the heart stills

I stand at a coast on the rocks in the night
Gazing out over waters with waves at wild
On the skyline flashes of lightning with might
Light the dark brooding clouds and rain falling mild
Oh this marvel of passion that fills
When the root of beauty pierce senses and the heart stills

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poem by Francois Hoon
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Predator’s Prey

A young boy is crumbled in a bundle small
Under wooden boards of stairs outdoor
His breath is held as he grips the ground of the floor
In his back an ache, from the angst in his heart a longed-for break

Just a few steps higher hiding in the same place I
His brother older I cringe at the fear my body holds
My muscles trembling and my mouth distastefully dry
I wish to be bolder as the strength I have, it all folds

I taste the dust in my mouth as I press my face to dirt
Afraid to look up I still feel the fright of my brother ‘neath my heels
I long to break out with might,
Protect those I should and fight

In this old park we lie and wait
Two boys young who ran to hide the first place straight
Our parents off far out of sight or shout
The earth still as our hearts pound and grabs our stout

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poem by Francois Hoon
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