Who Is That In The Mirror?
What has happened to you?
your hourglass is top-light-
of sand-grain and Life,
so obvious, your changes,
i had nightmares
of your deep set eyes...last night.
Still you squeeze and push
at the the egg-shell glass,
'til the crystal bares cracks
of pertruding veins,
[Look Familiar? ]
cracks of caveat,
while you obsess
in your world
of blind disfigurement,
standing front a mirror
on bruised, twigged legs,
beginning to bristle....,
buckle.......this paradox
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Th' White, Stone Crosses O' Donnegal
The today's begin- as the yesterday's,
frosted dew from th' nights cold mist
blanketing acres of serrate damp soil,
grassblades wear th' sun on their tips,
a peacefully warm white burst o' light,
perhaps, Mother Natures kinder side,
accomodations for they dwelling here,
boxed below th' sod, forever sleeping-
th' many souls of unfinished business,
far-long beyond injustice an' sacrifice,
taken young, for love of country, and-
buried in a sea of white stone crosses;
real names attached to dates and war,
the dates not nearly far enough apart,
an' their stories..... would pale a ghost.
'n, from th' Lowlands to th' Highlands,
past th' scarlett shores.....of Donnegal,
there be scant sod, for the future dead
as th' green turf, lo, has turned to sage
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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While You Were Asleep {Ariels Wake}
I watch you as you sleep,
Feel a warming breeze pass your cold, still lips;
An essence of florals, and my eyes affix,
On the bleeding heart draped upon your silk, blue gown.
A string of pearl rosaries intertwine alabaster fingers;
The Crucifix looks down on you with venerating passion;
A single ivory rose finds peace beside your breast;
Reminds me of the one you pressed in that paperback of Poe.
And, oh, those abhorrent catty-cornered torchere lamps,
Juxtaposed and rigid as Buckingham Guards.
You used to say ''Why must parlors insist on their presence? ''
I despise them too, and for you my love, I command their removal.
'Tis nine at night, prayers of closure fade to eerie silence;
I exercise temperence with amorphous expression;
Masking wired nerves, depressed veins in migrain;
Handshakes of pestilence acknowledge unknown faces.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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What If Life Were But A Dream?
What difference would it make............if life were but a dream
As if we owned th' magic wand, to wake up 'n smell th' coffee
Colorless houses stand tilting.......'neath loud-orange sunsets
And your confusion asks: Is this a dream.....or my life within it
We exercise, motion and thought..........with great redundance
Patterns that jog the rapid eye.................when sleep befalls us
Seems, th' closer we get to th' answers...we supposedly seek
We're pulled further away, 'til illusion takes us to another place
And, if our lives be no more or less....than a continuous dream
What be then th' next dimension, when th' dream so concludes
Will it place us all in a limbo of re-runs of Nightline with Koppel
Or find ourselves in th' world...we already believe to be living in
Existence......is merely interpretation of accepted surroundings
We sleep with belief that to dream...is to live our subconscious
Image and illusion fabricated by th'stem of our mercurial minds
Yet, what if our subconscious is in fact our conscious existence
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Deliverance Of The Doves
Two doves in motion, exploring their options
in tune to life from their spire;
dictating wings expand with suggestion
in a tone of conviction,
thrumming like strings form a symphony in presto.
Pacificating symbols, two doves descend for societies wisdom,
their conciliatory manner delivering a message of hope
that no one but they can see.
Above, flies a thrush, a spirited songbird,
no significant symbol of society.
Its taupe upper plumage and spray spotted breast
presenting radical contrast to the image of the dove
and cultural proclivities.
Two doves now connect with the flight of the thrush,
appearance and origin, separate and different,
yet somantics and custom are unwelcome principals
as the trilogy shares common ground...habitation.
Exploring their options without bias nor barrier,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Trials & Tribulations Of Poetry...
Melodrama..........has never been my cup of tea
'Less, the spotlight of center stage.....be on me
Cross pens are mightier...than a sterling sword
Still i'd rather a Bugatti...than a brand new Ford.
When sunsets catch my eye's......i'm so inclined
To paint a scape of words.....of twilights skyline
I'm just an imagist.....spinning picturebook tales
Some simpatico in weight......on prosaic scales
'Tis what i do, to keep my mind's eye free of rust
Never wrote Sestina.........6 of 6 is too much fuss
Yet true poetry is fuss about perfection, an' more
Requiring the will, and want to adhere, 'n explore
Many say poetry...is merely image and depiction
Yet this claim falls far short....of its pure definition
Beauty of the substance.......the sweet of the flow
That's what draws the line, 'tween poetry, 'n prose
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Side The Riverbreak
Standing 'side the riverbreak,
watching water move like lightening,
flowing fast, white, narrow brook,
'tween the legs of the Douglas trees.
And these streams have curves so crooked,
subluxed....in serpentine,
'til they merge...become one river, and then -
it spirals to the riverbreak.....,
kissing the fork, seperating the surge.
And, there be majic, in the riverbreak;
its' speed and strength dictates the flow,
of white-capped ripple o'er deep-blue current.....,
where the principals copulate.
Stimulating....the force of the riverbreak;
no virgin surf, this channel, be;
must be the sight of the rapids front.....,
that excites, compels the serfeit fawning.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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CASTLE of SPIRITS
The nape of my neck, unexpectedly teased -
by a stray draft wafting like culs of stringed cobweb,
clinging to the hairs of my scruff as i -
shuffle my feet along the cracks of this old parquet floor.
I stop to brush away the silk-thread from my neck,
but nothing is there, nothing, and then i -
hear the whistle of the wind revealing its ruse,
bouncing 'gainst the walls of a spine narrow hallway,
claustrophobically surfing for the exodus
of open windows.
The inhale of mahogany and rosewood -
ancient castles capture moments through sense,
echo and solitude.
You and i share our lonliness
over sips of Jeroboam, and i -
wonder if the legend King of Israel
would imbibe with us, if our spirits
could sojourn back by sundial -
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Time, Iz All...
TIME.......what a strange word, for when spelled in reverse
this word transposes into what many might construe as an
apropos term, taking into consideration the function of this
action word, EMIT.....which scientifically, has no direct link
to the standard defintition of TIME....yet does have a direct,
complimenting nexus to this evermoving forward thwart of
Life 'n Objective. For the fact is, TIME discharges, (EMITS)
its intangible and sometimes inscrutable prowess...upon us.
It vents.....goes forth....rapid and relentless......with no End.
The Book of Genesis.......will tell us when TIME began. While,
The Book of John sheds Revelation as to how TIME be comp-
leted, as well as at what point TIME passes torch to DESTINY.
All things will pass, both good n' evil..a Great War will ensue!
Catechismic law will be challenged in force by cataclysmical's.
Yet, when the TIME comes for the Seventh 'n Final Seal to be
opened, and, if the Good Book be Word.....as i believe it to be,
Nostradamas, 'n the Mayan's will have much to explain when
God calls for The Official TIME-OUT! Without the help from
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Behind The Mind of The Abstract Poet...
Kaleidoscopic verve of vision
we dare to tread finest lines,
steady as the marionette
dangling o'er a child -
recklessly, drunkingly,
grade school tom-foolishly,
metaphorically breathing,
teasing and testing,
delivering loud messages
so subtlely...as 'we' do so well,
quite collectively, such variety,
like potpouris scent of diversity,
synthesizing all principles
of written locution;
and have you studied
the grammarical bible
of parlance, keen lexia
in lieu of lingual dreck?
personally i'd rather
be accused of shibboleth,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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