C o r t e g e...
Cobblestone has propensity
to be snared-up by rusted horseshoes.
You can hear the pain of the clydesdale
by the sharp, scraping sound
from each hoof as it slaps at the stone
bending awkwardly at the knee,
with each stride.
Yet no one really notices, that is-
except for the other horse,
juxtapositioned and suffering
quite equally with its partner.
Such goes the proverbial caisson
rolling with the likes of
Garfield, Coolidge and Hayes,
of presidential privlege,
passing their homegrounds
for the very last time,
as tradition and respect demanded,
before the New Deal, FDR...
and the age of smooth blacktop
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Stories from the Grave...
Stories fom th' grave, speak their tales....on winds of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths and sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er the steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayers somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice...cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice......choirs with credence
Of Sunday stories taught by men in black with white collars
An' faith, born of fear, as to when our winds of Death come
Stories from th' grave, shed no light upon th' deep unknown
Still, we follow olde traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to steel-grey stone, upon......soft, unleveled soil
In hopes that all these stories olde......be blessed with truth
Perhaps, somewhere beyond th' winds....lay all th' answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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By The Streams Of Killclarke
And the stream was long and narrow
Running 'side.....the crooked marrow
Of the smoked-black....wooded bark
Through the dark woods of Killclarke
And, on Augustides...afternoons face
We watched magic......take its' place
Off the windbreaks and the shadows
Silhouettes..........of nesting sparrows
Flight juxtaposed....and flanked in ''V
Then breaking flank.......in serpentine
They flutter..............into verdant tree's
And, goldenrod is aroused in breeze
'Bove our heads windpipes in whistle
Stroking.......... prickled flower thistles
Painting colours........shades of green
Creating the artists..........finest dream
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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In Adherence To Armageddon
Viral ranks will spread like plague,
Ravens claws will clinch and pull -
by way of black mid-eastern gold
Influentially 'crude' with curling smile
and serpents dance, and as its ruse
it mates with every culture, naturally.
Everyday is circumstance
another chance....consequence
Yet we choose to challenge the stage
tho' we talk, and tap-dance very well.
For when it all comes down to logic -
we just don't get it at all.
It's a wonder we've survived this long!
What common denominator bests
the mortal bond of Life, Death?
For what in Gods name could be more telling than this?
We all touch Life within warm wombs.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Love... Is... Love... Is... Love...
It's the kiss.....before the goodnite
It's the bliss......after having a fight
It's the memories...of special day's
It's the tempering.....clouds of grey
It's the invitement of your first date
It's the excitement...that you create
It's the shoes you leave at the door
It's the muse.....you call your amour
It's the sharing...of wine and seeds
It's the caring to honour and please
It's the start of your day's in the sun
It's the hearts of 2..that beat as one
It's the diamond shopping...at Kay's
It's the roses......on Valentine's Day
It's the sunset.......you nestled under
It's the lightning...before the thunder
It's the healing....from all that is grey
It's the reason....to savour each day
It's the action of words..you profess
It's the passion.......and nothing less
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Upon The Eve of All Hallows {Sonnet For The Saints}
Stories from th' grave, speak their tales on wind's of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths 'an sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er th' steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayer somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice....cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice.....choirs with credence
Of Sunday verse sung by men....in black with collars white
Evoking th' fear of God- for when our winds of Death blow
Stories from th' grave......shed no light upon those sleeping
Still, we follow old traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to th' steel-grey stone, upon soft, unleveled soil
In hopes all these stories dark, be blest in God-Kissed Light
Still many questions live, in deepest sleep, with our Saint's
Perhaps somewher' beyond all this lay th' hallowed answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Prayer To The Helping Hand...
Long, narrow halls breed echo
or do they reach out to the walls,
beckoning their dormant ego's
to assist its fading call
And, everyone needs a helping hand -
every now and again.
Mighty Oaks cast shade and romance,
or do they call on Mother Nature
for feed and drink, to enhance
it's gift of prompting Rapture;
And, everyone needs a helping hand -
every now and again.
La Tour Eiffel stands like deity,
or does its spherical point engage
on its graphic, empirical history,
based on human intrigue for the 'strange';
And everyone needs a helping hand -
every now and again.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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For Gwenevere: }{:
Dead movement verberates,
still twitching from the flush,
trapped in a pooled canal
of blood and saline.
Still, movement verberates,
courses thru' the infant twigs,
until, the clasp of metal tongs
snap the frail, verdant limbs,
rip the chord of 'Innocence',
quickly................stridently,
as God forbid there be
a detection of two heartbeats,
a scienced proof of Life
for the practitioners manifest
and the resigning matriarch;
as both cross over ethics line
playing Lord, God, Jesus Christ-
and in the process...becoming-
participants in the cruelest act
of bloody murder inside a womb,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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In This Autumn Of The Year
In this Autumn of the year there be image
Pictorial earthtone's.....the artist's nirvana
Flecks of shades....bleed into each spray
Summer's closure.....sets on the causway
In this Autumn of the year there be breeze
Whisps feather past red cheeks 'n lobes
In contrast to the gusts.....of Winter's sting
Autumn flails its limbs...like colored wings
In this Autumn of the year, there be rainfall
A subtle, chilling mist.....that feeds the soil
Preparing, for the fast confronting Harvest
Showerings fall like angel-hair........tingling
In this Autumn of the year..... there be spice
A vast potpouri.....of kaleidoscopic majesty
Herbs 'n hickory smoke, from chimney tops
Country fairs and downtown sidewalk stops
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Book Of Visions
Visions, bare th' naked scope of futures life's measure
Stimulates th' rhapsody......wrapped in loves' pleasure
Magazine-like images draw shades of prismed colours
Inspiring th' Mind's-Eye sensories....to draft its covers
Visions, cast a shadow on th' plight of dreams to come
As well as crosses dealt to us fr'm black eastern drums
Out-of Body premonitions.........strike inspired chord's
Aspiring thos' with Faith to crack th' deadlocked doors
Visions, book th' voyage.....to our destinies last chapter
Strange abberation images.......of Life beyond hereafter
Artly smoke-hazed matchstickmen, odd misconception
Channeled from Dreams energies, this ruse perception
Visions, are the bloodline of our Spirits living foresight
Capped in a mortal shell of human God-blessed insight
Stroking on th' threads of heart beats pulse n' rhythm
Casting virtued credence 'pon..........Visions catechism
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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