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Sunday, December 10, 2017

Death in the Afternoon

Murmurs of the crowd
Wash in waves of distant thunder
Late afternoon in the month of June
The arena; damp with rain and wonder

Bodies in boxes with glasses
Binocular visions of Spanish lasses
Dressed in vermillion and gold
Waiting the tragedy to unfold

Below, there stands the matador
Surveying a slight expanse of sand
Upon their horses, picadors
Lances ready in their hands

Into the barrera comes the bull
Released from inside his iron cage
His appearance; terrible and dreadful
Snorting drool in fearsome rage

Fandas passing magenta and gold
Capote flourishing to tempt and tease
As picadors drive home the lances
Blood on the dusty Spanish breeze

Horns and shoulders, lower now;
Toro focused upon the cloth
The matador with each passing suerte
Brandishing his sword aloft

The flash of red, the glitter of steel
Dash and dance at his command
His steps, a close ballet of sorts;
The waltz of assassins and noblemen

Beneath the burning Spanish sun
The gasping crowd awaits the doom
The final thrust of the sword bears witness
To death in the afternoon

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Seasons in Rhyme

Autumn and spring are my favorite seasons
Oddly enough, for opposite reasons

When the lime green buds are being born
And the sun shines bright in the April morn

Invigorated I feel so alive
As first honey bees that fly from the hive

In search of sweet nectar in the early hour
When the morning glory begins to flower

For by that time Spring is well on her way
And the grasses are covered in colors of May

White clouds drifting through amethyst skies
To the flutter and flitting of gold butterflies

By the time new hatchlings are learning to sing
Summer will shade them in delicate green

With all Summer's passions of sweltering spent
And young children asking where they all went

The earth will still warm her feet by the embers
Till raisins from grapes remain of September

Then come the pumpkins from fields of October
The last days of summer are finally over

The maple is bursting; consumed, all aflame
Thirsting for something that hasn't a name

In bright red and gold, trees color their glory
What these leaves have said, told in their story

We once were young and we clung to the trees
We were green and alive and sang in the breeze

Now we let go with what's left on the vine
But even in death we will gloriously shine

We will burn in our splendor; majestic and bright
Joyful, our ending, for soon comes the night

I feel my own spirit accused here of treason;
That I have refused my autumn in season

Yet before winter comes my leaves seem to know
And in all of my limbs I feel my heart glow

There is a time to be born and a time to go;
An early spring morn and frost in the meadow

Yes, Autumn and Spring are my favorite times
When seasons in passing find reasons in rhyme

Wednesday, November 8, 2017


Walking home one summer night
The sky was filled with sudden light
A shooting star that left a trail
Behind a multi-colored tail

Too swift to be a comet's light
A meteoroid or meteorite
Broken off as a piercing spear
Traversing through the atmosphere

And I alone witnessed the sight
As I stood below the burning light
Wondering how I might explain
A sight that others had not seen

Like spotting a fairy or an elf
Some things are best kept to oneself;
Certainly heavenly trails of fire
Lest one be branded as a liar

And so I spoke not a word for fear
As summers passed me year by year
Until at last I had grown old
And the thing was never told

At last I found I was not afraid
Of what others thought or others said
I became free to suffer a whim
It mattered not if they thought me dim

There was such a shining light in me
Burning bright with liberty
And I had become that shooting star
Of a memory that had traveled far

Saturday, November 4, 2017


There were owls before dawn
Singing to each other
One song; long and loud,
The other, soft and deep

Clouds drifted dark sky
A light breeze blew
And a fine mist
Made soft and easy sweep

Soon came a dripping
And low, distant thunder
Dreams slipping
Between majestic trees

The great owls hushed
Eerie silence ensued
Until lightning flashed
Adrift on celestial seas

Roaring ocean waves
Beyond morning's door
Through a mighty sieve
Tapping window panes

Owls became hosts
To summer's sighing ghost
Slipping overboard
In cold November rain

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Lost on the Bayou

Deep in the shadows
Green lights play
Will o' the wisp
At the close of day
Black licorice trunks of
Bald cypress decay
Drifting ghost mists
Dance and sway

Spanish moss drips
On dryer ground
From mighty oaks
Where mint is found
Near beds of moss;
Drops of blood
Flower from green;
Soft underfoot

Rich is the air
With the smell of loam
In the place that
Lichens call their home
Thoughts become tangled
As mangrove roots
Flowers hang from
Extended shoots

Honeysuckle, sickening sweet
Drifts in humid August heat

Alligators swim
Beneath and through
Black water brackish
Along the bayou
Mosquitoes hum
With dragonflies
Wings like drums
Of voodoo rites

See the spider
Drop from his thread
Spinning silk
Building his web
Over pools of
Soft quicksand
As water ripples
With moccasins

Here the serpent
Is king on a throne
Wherever he slithers
He finds a home
Hawks scream warning
Too late to turn back
Lost where waters
Are cool and black

Deep in the shadows
Green lights drown
Black waters rise
To drink them down
With souls of the lost
Until skies turn blue
As red-throated loons
Sing in the bayou

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Water, Blood and the Sea

There was water and sound
In the womb
Motion and warmth inside

There is life and salt
In the ocean
Endless flow of wave and tide

There was a rush of blood
In our birth
Forced into the cold and light

Whitecaps push onto the shore
In a hush
Washing sand cool and white

The coral seems umbilical
On the floor
Of the throbbing sea

Resting upon the bed of earth
With the urchin
And the anemone

In the vast pulse of the spherical
World it flows
Blood in the heart of humanity

And there all is as it should be
Salt and life
Water, blood and the sea

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Harvest Prayer

Blankets of fog rest softly on corn
Caressing brown tassels in early light
A soft mist kisses the cheeks of morning
And soothes the soul with ethereal white

Across the field, shadows of trees
Stand silhouette like guards of dawn;
Soldiers silent in corridors eastern
Await the king in castles of the sun

He burns in glory just below the horizon
Sending forth rays into velvet sky
Pulling quilts from the beds of his children
As they raise their green sleeves high

The palaces glow in rosy reflection
Clouds crown the day with a wreath
Then golden laurels in every direction
And every honor the sun can bequeath

Waking stalks rustle quietly in prayer
Their striated leaves like a chorus
Whispering hope to the farmer where
He stands listening for their voices

About Me

My photo
Poet and musician Fabian G. Franklin invites you to join him on a poetic journey through the soul and nature.