June... June... June... June...
This is for June....and all the summers it brings
Wind chasing bells......of a Church steeple ring
Olde songs of wedlock....over top hat, and lace
'Fore June passes torch....to July's scarlet face
Tree's are full jacket's...........of multi-hue green
The last pink magnolia leaf......still can be seen
There's a breeze in the air, that carries a scent
Of her sweet honeysuckle....fresh efflorescence
Still, nights cast a chill, but June has its motive
An inviting warm flame....bright amorous votive
Moonlite romance...'neath a nautic June breeze
Make love in June sparkle like starshine on sea
___________________- F j R -___________________
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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I n c a p a c i t a t i o n
Wings don't always fly
It's just a credible assumption
Like saying every person who has legs
Can walk 0r bend at the knees
Logic and Reason
Be a wise, clamorous duo
But at what acute decibel
Does the mind defer to observation
Yet, eyes aren't always perspicuous
To what boldly stands afront them
'Tis why most walk through life
With dreams earmarked for pathos
Wishing we had wings to fly
Away from the Logic and Reason
That brings us to our knees
Blinds us and Deafens us
[...] Read more
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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C` i` r` r` h` o` s` i` s`
The vintage Jeraboam was like ether, an aural fantacide;
Mercurial Mind......irascible to the drumming of its walls;
Time escapes 'tween the threads of numbness and coma;
The Human Liver...labours deep, be it sotted...be it sober,
Yet only by the finest line that crosses Breath with Death.
Ostensibly brain-froze, still your nerves sense the needles;
Elixur potentate....might as well be injected with profofol;
The events, the illusion....that mirage in your Dreamscape-
All pass, as the movement of the Rapid Eye draws closure,
For the Mind not be born to sustain abuse so great as this.
And you awake to find your flesh a deepest shade of ochre.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Second Presage
Senses so alive, I felt them.....dancing thru' my Brain
Time drops its hands t' purge its spaced indifference
Breath of Science loses sight...by th' open Eye of God
Pagans not be stunned...for they know only darkness
Deaf, yet, still I heard, th' silence...from my madness
Brushing, cool breeze passing thru' my labored lungs
Paralytic Rhapsody, I breathe....like a newborn infant
Seven Angel's voices whisper sweetly, 'You are Home'
Where goes th' flesh of my mortalness, beyond th' ash
For is that not what th' Gospel preaches every Sunday
Time lifts its hands, moves again quite hauntingly, yes-
Senses so alive, I felt them........from a presage stalking
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Upon The Tilting Of A Rose
There be an air of sensuality, to the tilting of a Rose;
young stems curving gracefully.......as they maturate,
so they may support the blossom of their better half,
in glorious rapture by the fresh mist...of the new day
And the glow in the after.....of this eye-captive event,
be likened to a pink-warm shine, washing the faces
of lovers, as they ensconce.....in juxtaposed nirvana;
until woman wraps her curves around man's desire.
The beauty of a Rose, is fully realised through virility;
its stem, the backbone, and prowess to her majesty.
No thrust of effloresence....be so beautiful to behold,
as the amorous climax.......upon the tilting of a Rose.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Peace Of The Paralytic Mind
They can be whoever they want to be...even themselves,
simply by believing they are, because security is warmth,
as they harbour their images in a place called...far-away-
from logic, reason, and common rule of cause and effect.
An' blessingly, these innocent will never taste the acidity
of shame nor broken pride.......for that'd be far too cruel.
And outside these minds stand we, the helpless 'an angry,
burning, stinging with bitter, equal pity for they and self.
When in fact, these souls in waiting may be the only ones
since Alex Garland to experience such a prelude to Utopia
....................................... ......................in prefix to Death!
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Hemorrhage
Carved deep within the vein.....of your blackest fears,
Are the threadings of your tangled thoughts, bleeding.
Bleeding fast, and heavy...........from the menstruation,
The purging of emptiness........befelt by me within you.
Lonliness turns to panic, when the fear of it takes form
Into manic presentations, of depression......and chaos.
Isolation of the human mind is like old, unkempt rooms;
Veils of cobwebs shrouding......the lucidity of the brain.
So if you would, take comfort, please.....in the knowing,
That my hand, be in yours....as we search for answers.
Place your wrankled mind side my warm, ilixured heart;
Let me share the weight of this cross....that bleeds you.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Rainpictures On Glass Canvass...
Watching th' ever sadness, of th' rain....am i
Listening to it speak......between its torrents
On winded wings it strikes defenseless sod
Yet, thru these window panes of fog'n streak
I open th' Pandora's Box....natures teary fall
Water paint images streak th' clouded glass
Like an abstract, surrealistic...faux-pas finish
Streetlights, like spotlite...on a fresh Picabia
Before my watchful mind, th' picture changes
Kaleidoscopic lines invent.....with criss-cross
Some say: ''a picture paints a thousand words''
If true, th' artistry of rain, paint thousands more
Radiance of window panes adorned in nature
And, on th' other side...a smiling child marvels
With fingers pressed on fogged glass canvass
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Upon Ones Worst Fears
Despise the stench of methanal
hovering o'er this narrow space;
tinnitis, like eerie sirens
penetrate through the bones....
of ossified oracles, and -
some neurological system,
flatlined from wired Life;
call it....Time of Death?
plastics and steel support still life,
by needdles, and tubes -
or do they?
I'll sleep on it,
let you know, tomorrow,
'less the whitecoats give
orders to fill my veins -
with morphine, a la drip, drip, drip.
[And will I ever be able to breathe on my own,
[...] Read more
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Of Winterscape...
Sprays of windglaced ice-dust...freezes mornings dew,
on the fresh needled spruce, immune to autumns wake
of feral gusts, that turn sprite colours...to crisp, dry leaf;
while listening to December's fifing...of its' winterwinds.
Grass blades stand like soldiers, silent, in rank and file;
rigid and still, from their full-bodied shell, of iced-armor.
Nothing be quite so sweet.....as winters first showcase;
it's virgin drape of white.....sweeping o'er pined hilltops.
Its majesty, forcing human breath's cold, fogging smoke,
and pleasuring the human mind....with flash-cube image.
There will ne're be a more aural catch....of natures stage,
than the crystal cloak, and crown..............of Winterscape.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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