If Just For A Moment With You...
But of course you dream....as so do i,
'bout the way things ought to be,
'bout the barriers that stand between,
like negotiating a riptide,
on a white-capped sea
'til calmer seas prevail,
and, i take you.....from all that is grey.
And, If Just For A Moment...
i could wash away the sorrow,
of the bittersweet teardrops,
that warmed my lips
by the touch of your salted kiss.....,
And, if only i could turn salt to diamonds;
on bended knee, i 'd ask for your hand,
and, forever take you, from all that is grey.
And, If Just For A Moment...
all our dreams could bear life;
we would sail past the barriers,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Tale Of A Tear Drop
A single Tear Drop-
Ovular formed,
Dangling on the tips,
Of a fluttering eyelash.
Suspended for a moment,
'Til impulse incepts;
'Twas a mere, subtle blink...
Yet, the Tear Drop falls;
And it travels so fast,
Like White-Water Rafting,
To ''Dueling Banjo's''.....
Riding o'er the cheekbone,
Of a shifting caps,
And in a moments flash
Its pace picks up course
A wince slows it 's speed;
But once o'er the cheekbone,
The sleighride doth begin,
Like th' one they called Nantucket;
But With human gust behind it;
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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M o r + o g r o p h y
Examines their ivory-whites.....for a jaundiced shade of yellow,
Sometimes challenging sleep by black joe and sugar cane cubes.
Occasionally dabbing the tip of his index finger 'pon rigid thighs,
They be the first signs of pre-mature Riga....human ossification.
One look thru' his eyes, dead eyes, his tri-pod drags by his side,
Immune to the caffeine in his veins, from the natural ice-water,
Waiting for the celcius to refrigerate the room with sub-zeroe's,
And, procedes to position his queer craft in theatric, erotic style.
Snap, Snap, a smirk of cynical rush, stretching across his visage.
What do you do for a living, asks a child....walking past the room.
I take picture's of the sleeping....boy; what's it look like i'm doing?
Cold as ice, says the boy......COLD AS DEATH.....chides the man!
Waiting by the phone for another call with camera, death in hand;
And, after all he's not the one who lays the quarters on their Eyes.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Comes Autumn...
Comes autumn...
with its addendum of moods and colours.
And as nature unfurls its myriad of jewels
there be majique
of ineffable bounty,
widening eyes, and broadening smiles -
reminding us all of the credence that lies
in that ole cliche,
''change is good''!
Comes autumn...
with its eventides of whistlesong breeze.
And in every blanket of its angeled mist rainfall
there be genisis
of inveterating offerage,
quenching the yearning thirst of the harvests,
nourishing the mercurial mind of the Poet
to take pen in hand and heart,
fleck an autumn-scape grandeur...indelible.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Love...Is...Love...Is...Love...{Reprise}
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 turn of the....other cheek
It's the silence in lieu of speak
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 morning......they call After
It's the yawning...and the laughter
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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A Midnight Walk By The Sea...
And at midnight we walked
the serpentined path by the sea,
over thick, moistened planks
of aged, splintered wood-
imbued with salted moisture
from height anemic dunes
that had failed surf and shore,
ravaged by the sea-wolves-
with such simplicity
that the splinters felt as smooth
as sheets of organdy,
loosing their jagged edges
from the eye of a June nor'easter.
Yet it wouldn't have really mattered
if our barefoot midnight walk
felt like mal-acupunture
from a Greenwich Village cave;
as when I reached for her hand,
saw her flushed pink face smiling
my sense of romance ossified
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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And That's What It's Like With You, My Love
Whenever you touch me sweet, my love
i feel the rapid beat of my pulse
like a thousand drums pounding,
fast and hard through my marrrow -
such hard, percussed sonority.
And, whenever we move to the dance of love,
we're like two celestial violins
with bows freshly rosined -
rubbing, pulling with bare moist heat,
complimenting each other with favour,
to the arousing rhythm and pleasure
of loves' perfect movement.
And when we perform together,
in dual concert, dominating exchange -
solos encounter like soliloquies
of sensual deliverance.
And the Rush of this titillation
is like the bursting of cymbals.....in climax,
exuberant release...euphoria, and -
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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About November 22nd,1963...
Watching forensic post-mortems of brain-spill......from his skull
My mind echoed back to that dark November, Friday.....in '63
Chaos...ruling an autumn knoll....grey imbruing a rich pink dress
Men in black suits, and smoked ray-bans......with magnums drawn
Won't ever be a November Autumn in Dallas, like the one in '63
I remember my Father saying, he'd have voted for him....in '64
Would have been the first time (he said) , that he broke party line
It be forty-eight years this twenty-second of November....My God
Makes me realize.....this scar will forever be scored thru' the Soul's
Of those like me, a child.....yet how we matured in year's that day
From the shocking news that as mortal life....we all shared as one
Without difference to colour, culture, lifestyle, politics.......or creed
Made me mealancholy.......wondering where God's world had gone
That our Heart's 'only' be bonded.........through self-fear and travesty
Like they did, on that Autumn noon in Texas......
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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SHADOWS OF AUTUMN {A Poet's Dream}
Shadows that haunt me in autumn
Memories of colours lost to winter
The Douglas Fir......forever green
Keeps the forests from the barren
and desolate winter...
Shadows tail the whispered winds
November's fickle breeze....snaps
Fresh images, for the Poet's mind
Reclusive me, i write my stories in
silent attitude...
Shadows that vision harvests death
Tips of golden leaves, turn to brown
Morning dew is masked in first-frost
I watch it all, by a window, in a room
of Donne and Poe...
All i need is my paper...and isolation
To feed by yen, for the abstract buffet
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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S a c r e d {Terza Versione}
Approaching the carved stone fountain
on a skin-toasting summers noon in Milan,
there's allurement for one to take both hands,
and immerse them beneath the fresh, cool ripple,
of the clear umbrella of decending liquid,
casting prismed rainbows off the Iris of the Sun.
Yet...in the center town squares of Italia,
where art is non-negotiabally sacred,
dipping hands in Borghese or Trevi
would be likened to the daring sacrelig-
of ensconcing ones' feet
in the Baptismal at Peter's Basilica.
Sacred be quite subjective, though-
Traditionalists tend to scoff at such notion;
not an odds-makers chance
to grade 'old school' mantra;
castes of olde-garde sage and stripped cultures,
still embrace the tarnished green copper
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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