Movement In Black
Simon makes it all come together, perfectly,
placing antiques 'n curio's on dusted black shelves,
window-sil ledges with geometric widgets,
navigating his world, by touch, and by texture.
Simon day-dreams about women and stem cells,
despite Canon Law, and his strict Catholic rearing.
And, he likes to muse on the concept of light,
spectrums, and prisms, though opague to Simon,
still he dusts pleated lamp-shades that house no bulbs;
says he might buy some hi-powered torchere lamps;
lie back in his chaise, absorb the dark warmth
of clear hallogen,
and imagine the sparkle of sunshine on sea-glass.
And, no one could possibly comprehend,
Simons' world of black imaged movement,
or how it feels to be gifted at birthe,
as an inspiration with Crosses to shoulder.
And of course, there's the expectations from those,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Time & Consequence [In Forward Movement]
Objects, moved subjectively
in our skewed peripheral spectrum,
through moist, dilated pupils,
one friday night decades gone
in New Yorks Greenwich Village.
We hadn't quite yet peaked,
though our thoughts had been well blottered,
while we all sat juxtaposed
in this Village cafe grotto,
'front a stage of thick brown crates,
housed by Boonesfarm Apple wine,
recitations by Bukowski
'neath the streets of Cafe 12.
Curled wafts of gray-white smoke
fixed our wandering eyes skyward,
to the black-strobe lighted ceiling,
breathing in the vintaged dust
like a million blue-black stars
over ashwood table-tops,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Draw The Curtain, Turn The Page...Close The Day...
Clear th' Stage
Draw th' Curtain
Down th' Lights
Turn th' page
Close th' Day
Ther' be nothing in this World to help me understand
Some shapes of Life that cast-out imperious shadows
Saw black crows, wings stretched...pointing skyward
Perched upon a gangly autumn tree branch......dying
Seven crow's, alas, but one was just a strange illusion
Leaving six, th' number etched upon Abbadons Beast
Watch a clock upon its wall...moves like snail on sand
Look away to savor life.....Time beats like Arrhythmia
An' what would you like to see in stone as yo'r epitaph
A Poet....A Muse.....or perhaps just a Soul of Gratitude
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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No Wonder Why God Made Us All Mortal Beings...!
Fresh flowers, sliced at the stems, on an angle...,
so they breathe at the parlour....deeper, longer;
still, in two day's they'll lay with the dead...dying,
tossed like trash from a black El Camino.
Coffeee, and petit-fours,
from Artuso's Bakery
awaiting our arrival,
from black limousines,
to deliver us from death, back to life,
to the home of the widow in mourning;
and we'll smack our salty lips,
at the site of the pasteries,
and slap each others backs
at the sharing of tell-tale,
carry-on 'bout the deceased.
Redundant cliches play a pestilent tune, like:
''It's the only time we get together it seems'',
and, '''Doesen't he look just like himself'''?
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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THE TOMB OF THE SAINTS... [A Visit To The Catacombs]
Visited the Tomb of the Saints last week
At the catacombs, beneath blackened soil
Cracked cobblestone, its entry path
Outer walls wrapped, in pea-green moss
Ancient must grabs you by the throat
Coats your lungs like the Takla Makan
Yet, two-thousand years of ashened mire
Ne're waver curious minds, from visiting
Canonized souls, within hallowed walls
It's cellared cold dampness, chilling your marrow
And, the warmest days, cool your blood, and brow
Centuries of Godliness, imbedded, like stonehenge
Walk deep inside its sacred womb...explore
Touch the countless stoneheads one by one
Each crypt a storied tale beyond its epitaph
Tales of martyrdom, aberration....miracles confirmed
Read, the etched carvings 'tween aged crosslines
Remind yourself as to who they were
Before they stood before you here, in silent sainthood
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Upon The Harbouring of Sickness In Death...
With endearment, you gently lift
the dutch door top of the pinewood,
but, only because within it sleeps
the one who understood you, and-
the chaos between your hemispheres,
the delphian orbs and cherubs,
ossified...within your abstract wiring,
and loved you through it all;
a love that bore no substitute.
who will care for me now, you ask;
NO-ONE! - says a voice from years gone,
as you stare at the vericose veins
an old cracked-ceilings ruse;
you affix a sybilline stare
of lament that bears no mercy
from your myriad of strange behavior
harbouring within your brain,
pricking the spines live nerve-endings
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Mindless Of Heart {Prosaic Verse}
And, yet still now, you are confirmed by the notion
that so long as the Mind be strong.....the Heart will
always follow...and because so...I find cause now, to
educate your own Mind...of the physics....and logics
of a sophistric mantra, that you ask me to believe to
be objective, factual, when in fact, I find its rationale
to be many yards short of such statue.... but further-
to be nothing less than solipsism............at its zenith.
For you see my dear, as much as you would like me
to claim 'Epiphany' to your logic and claim but alas,
I cannot and shan't, and I will cite modern medicine
as my ''weapon-of-choice'', in deflecting your flawed
theory in placing the strength of Mind.....over Heart.
Though the Human Brain, be clearly...the most con-
sistently fertile and operational organ in the Human
Body, it is only such by way of the continuous feed of
nourishment in the form of Human Blood....which is
solely delivered compliments.....of the Human Heart.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Presage
Standing over a presage I saw
an ocean carrying bodies cold
on jagged tide, occasionally colliding
and snapping joints like matchsticks
all in advanced riga state
stiff as smoked dry-iced...rising.
Could some I know be within my reach?
This I was thinking, as a telephone rang.
Oceans hold presage within their depths,
great epochs steering a world below land.
Breeding life, earth...housing the dead -
far deeper than those beneath carved stone.
I hear a voice cry that sounds too familiar,
then a chill of sudden still silence.
I awoke this morning to the sound of howling
and the gnashing of knuckles on broken glass,
a hideous scene to awaken to...and the news,
the news... made my stomach burn.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Black 'n White Of It
Still, and for reasons I cannot justify,
the two ne'er seem to be shamed
by the blatant polarization....,
of they to the others!
These two alien entities -
the only chemicaled entities
that be, isolated, ablated
and, shunned-by the one and only
Players Club
of Resplendent Brotherhood-
spinning their Wheels
among themselves
like Yugo's... stuck in Siberian snowdrifts,
this concourse of 'a-co-existing' colour,
What Bias! ...Such Arrogance!
____III BEWARE____
Still these colours,
go about their business,
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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BROKEN WINGS OF INNOCENCE...[Sad Angel's Lullaby]
Empty room wreaking,
imbrued by Mortal Sin;
opened windows airing
the stench of anathema,
festering thru' the vericose veins,
of the spider-cracked walls.
Parquet floor.....damp, cold;
houses an empty cradle;
lingering traces of scented powder,
aloe vera, vanilla, and jasmine;
the only signs that life,
ever existed here.
Comely breezes find the opened windows;
curling whisps, pass o'er the naked sils,
disturbing the fringed curtain hems;
prompting their dancing flail...hauntingly,
as if they were voicing their angst,
to the essence of the Death, they cannot reverse.
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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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