A Butterflies Query & A Little Girl's Anomaly...
An Ediths Checkerboard spoke to a child,
asked, why do butterflies die so young?
I have no idea, I 'm just a little girl, but
Chrysalis and Wing-dusts do take its toll,
and a plethora of the forementioned two
has propensity to transmorgrify an imago
into a houndstooth, wool eating hole making
mother munching moth of Versace tasting,
albeit, ha-ha, that really never happens, at all,
as I heard a wise cat tell a ''piller'', TALL
that you can never ever really 'catch a' piller',
for their addiction to flight is a dangerous thrill-er
until the 'piller' is caught, cuffed...redeemed-
so I found out one day reading Time Magazine
You see 'pillers' fly high... just like you,
it's what ''pillers'' and butterflies do;
they just land from a different dimension,
due to take-off and half-baked suspension,
and I heard that it's scarry and so temporary
that it obscures the ''pillers'' perception.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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I C E D A N C E R
In engaging a walk, on a Winter's crisp morn,
On a snow-feathered path,
Glazed with ice-ladened branches,
Lies a Pond of most striking impression,
Mother Nature's Kiss.
Crystalized Ice in the shape of a Heart,
An ardor of Winter's Majesty.
Subtle breezes stir the Pines,
As I step towards the Mirror-like Pond.
Wafts of Snow leave their landing
And looking up I'm bedaubed,
With a breath-chilling freckling Snowmist.
And the Pond, an image of Celestial capture,
A figuration of amorous grandeur.
Its surface in shades of Silver and Amber;
Kaleidoscopic, from the young Sun in Birth.
A spindrifting Breeze
Snares the cusp of my Nose,
And my eyes close.
The Wind changes course, and am soon alerted
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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This Child Within The Man {When Crossroads Connect}
Crossroads splitting 'neath July's late sun,
like a silent tremor,
four streets meet,
and it's time for decision-
where to go now.
Looking for alternate roads,
sun dying fast,
narrowing paths and options.
I see a bridge beyond and 'neath
a backdrape of golden
trimmed burgandy;
high sunset bleeding
into evenings mergence,
like a virgin falling,
falling-
falling to her knees
slowly, softly-
to her knees.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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And You Made Just Like Churchill...
The word is they found you dead last night,
alone.....on the porch of your Eastside digs,
a warm Crème de Cacao 'side a hardbound
of T. Capote's 'Portraits and Observations'.
[ And wasn't that how you'd dreamt it, mate-
raise your soul......and smile forever]?
Ahh, bu' ya' 'ad a God-Good run, chum, ya' did-
(to use your own endearing cliche) ....did ya' not?
Sailing your pin-striped sunfish....'cross the Bay
the low, flaming cherry...dripping from the west,
upon pink liquid salt......as August sunset's must
ridin' eve's silver ripple til Sun became the Moon.
We'd anxiously wait along Saint Lawrence Pier
as you pulled into dock, and quietly took a seat,
telling us tales........as long as the Seaway itself,
painting wide smiles that stretched out our lips;
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr. (2012)
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The Black Autumn
Comes the cold, black, wake of autumn,
harbouring its' pique on naked limb;
damp, feral winds astir
to the stalking, hawking,
and hideous squawking...
of ominous, impetuous birds;
large and intrusively pestilent,
inexorabally circling,
'neath the late day shadows
of a cold november sunfall.
And the crows of Autumn, wear angry eyes,
the kind you felt on the back of your neck
when you read Edgar Allan's ''Raven''.
Teasing the breeze-spun tumbleweeds,
as they roll over cornfields... spewing-
threads and shard of stick, and husk,
gaunt signs of a harvest dying.
Clouds bleed deep sage, and drape
over the foreboding presence
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Hendrix Stratocaster Syndrome((((
Strange echo, cadence,
tinnitus stalking
the auracles, AS-
the inner-ear reacts
like sirens, screaming -
in piercing terminal pitch.
My hands compress
impregnable audio;
feckless attempts, TO-
muffle the maddening shrill,
that resulted in adamant,
irreverseable deteriment,
and total opposement
to any efforts
to allay this mute dystrophy,
petulant symphony -
in the womb of my inner-ear,
and unkindly accompanied
by mind-chasing hiss,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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These Moments of Innocence {La Terza Versione}
This morning I awoke from a dream,
to the quintessence of pure innocence,
thru' my sunsoaked bedroom window.
Watched the sweet, soft landing
of a doves imposition,
upon a newborne branch
of the leanest tree,
lending shade, and confidence
to the infant limb,
by its presence, alone...
and nothing more;
discognizant to the virtue
of its mere presence,
...and nothing more -
just this...... and nothing more.
And it washed my face with smile
to see such divinity before my eye's.
Verdant and promising,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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SOUNDS & SIGHTS OF THE RIVERDANCE...[Observations From A Live Irish Step Dance Performance/Radio City Music Hall, New York]
Tap, Tap, Tap...
Shoe-point on wood
One lone Dancer
Striking the floor
With hyperbole...
While ignominiously
Glaring, left to right
Twenty Dancers
Being watched
By twenty more
Awaiting their key
Standing in position
Clad in dark solids
Burgandy and black
Orchestra anxious
Ready to commence
Turn a silent stage
Alive with fifes 'n strings
Hear the sound of Violins
Tight-string pulling
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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A Walk to the Cemetery to Visit Some Friends...
I'm taking a walk to the cemetery this morning,
be back before noontime for crumpets and tea.
I have two friends who died not so long ago;
they were brothers, treated me the same.
Had not spoken with them since that night.
The night it rained red glass and tears
'neath the stuttering lights on Dawsonstills Bridge.
Still, sometimes at night
i am awakened by the sound of it
somewhere still inside me.
You see, Death....will always find you, when it wants to
Thought it was time i stopped by to say hello
and along the way, i picked up a gift.
Habitual manners taken right to the grave...excuse the levity.
''Never visit someones home empty handed'',
that's what Mum always said.
Flowers are always freshest when laid in the morning dew,
still, by noon's end, they'll be wilting in the summer-haze,
laying still, decomposing...and my mind takes to thinking
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Poppy Isn't Always A Flower...
Poppies, red and pretty be...
Intensely fantasial,
as they be malignant
like Autumns leaves
in the grip of Winter.
Self-inflicted disease,
despite outward signs,
the abstract dreams,
the tolling of bells
in the silence of night,
that deafen sprite ears,
stun equilibrium,
fork the numb tongue,
hurniating the pores
of your apothecaried Brain.
And the syringes you stole
out the bowels of the clinic,
during a 'trip' thru' your slanted Mind.
................Did you really not know you were dying?
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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