Drag

Three a.m. blues,

thick as smoke

Creeping slow

as sweet sorghum

Dreamy clouds

of steaming coffee

Delicate wisps

of summer jasmine



Lucinda Williams

moans soft and low

Crickets sing in

black ghost grass

Far down an empty

gravel road

The heavy night

is eerily still



Distant highway

life, on pause

No lights or background

engine growl

The stars seem to

twinkle louder now

Blinking out

a useless S.O.S.



Air so solid

I can feel it

Warmth resisting

movement

Sleep lead weighted

to eyelids

Hot liqueur in

guts of doldrums



Breeze that

refuses to blow

Despite the window’s

open invitation

Lone light bulb

hot enough to sweat

Night almost gone

hangs around to drag





© 2010 Fabian G. Franklin

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The eyes of the infant alter
With shifting forms of color and light
Listening to the tinkle of the chime

Never does his attention falter
Transfixed by the beauty so bright
On his face; a look of happiness sublime

Simple shapes of twirling plastic
Suspended by a bit of string
Tied fast to a rotating music box

The effect borders on fantastic
Wonderful to this tiny being
In his cotton blanket and knitted socks

Beauteous treasure underrated
For just the few dollars it cost
Hours of amazement entertained

Innocence lies fascinated
In dreams of rapture lost
Perhaps that is poetry explained

On Windy Bay

I dreamed last night of Windy Bay
When we were there one April day
The sunlight bleaching out your curls
A different sun, a different world
The ocean seemed to call your name
On every rock where water came
The breaking brine would crash and hiss
We shared a wet and salty kiss
Our blanket wrapped around us both
Held our bodies warm and close
We sipped coffee by the fire
And watched the morning star retire
Let’s go tomorrow or today
Back to our love on Windy Bay

Leaves and Last Goodbyes

The chill of late autumn mimics the chill of my soul.
Since you left, my heart is broken.
There’s no place left to go.

I walked down to the lake today, sat on the bank and cried.
The dogwood that you planted there
Is withered black and dry.

Only a few sparse leaves are clinging, like memories in my heart.
As I hung my head and sat there
I could feel the teardrops start.

Hopeless and helpless, I held my knees, trying to get a grip.
Talking to God and begging please
As useless prayers spilled from my lips

I told Him I was angry because He didn’t keep you alive.
He didn’t answer why the cancer
Took you at only thirty- five

I have to go home to our children now and tell them mommy is gone
I wish I could stay here somehow
I feel so lost and all alone

A gentle wind blew from the lake and caught a burnt black sail
And a dogwood leaf filled with grief
Trembled silent and fell

I remember you lying in the hospital bed saying I had to carry on
I love our children but I’m bewildered...as to how
Now that my love and life are gone

The hour is getting later and darker; endless tendrils of tomorrow
Like the dogwood’s tiny fingers...lingering
Clawing the hem of heaven in sorrow

Teardrop

Silent pear-shaped world of water;
Ocean of pain trapped in a drop
Sliding slow as frozen glaciers
Down the cheek to trickle stop

Saline bitter; sometimes sweet
Always salty as the sea
Where emotions mix and meet
From the hearts of you and me

Soothing balm to pain and fear
Sadness caught or rapture’s joy
All contained within the sphere
Encapsulated by the envoy

Messenger of pride and pain
From young child to dying old
They are drops of our heart rain
From the windows of our soul

Blood is life so oft is said
It goes unchallenged when we hear it
Clearer than the crimson red
Is the bearer of the spirit

Offering this wisdom now
For every heart and soul to hear
Sacred as the wedding vow
Is the shedding of a tear

The Troubadour

Man With The Blue Guitar...Pablo Picasso

The Troubadour

Across the bronze wound notes of my being
A calloused thumb strums the music of my soul
Perhaps the song is sad today remembering
The happy sounds of youth as I grow old

All the worn down grooves along the frets
And hollow canoes ground into the neck
Where blues were played and life was stretched
Now but silent visions which I might reflect

And the shining pearls I cast before swine
Mark the chords of every absent song
I played for the dance of every painted mime
Knowing that they had no words to sing along

Play me a tune like wine by candlelight;
Like a book beside a crackling fire in winter
But if not romantic; make it gay and bright
I would be the revelry to cheer the happy sinner

I’m an old guitar but I still stay in tune
To the hearts that love me for my song
I would play the stars and the harvest moon
In autumn when the nights grow cold and long

I’ve been aware without reverberation
There is trembling tremolo at my center
Where the pick was placed in adoration
Like the bookmark by that fire in winter

Perhaps it marks where the last song played
And we might pick up the music yet again
My life is but a song, no matter what is said
Pray, do not let the music sadly end

Sun Drenched Love

So long ago I remember when
The smell of sunshine on her skin
Drove me mad; intoxicating
Any plan we had of waiting
Damp and tangled auburn curls
Brushed away the worried world
The rise and fall of eager hips
Sea salt kisses; tender lips
Smooth brown skin drenched in sweat
Forbidden sins with no regret
Such, the reckless ways of youth
Memories enhance the truth
As summer did those many times
Sundresses hid bikini lines
Dinner at her parent’s house
Silent as proverbial mouse
Tried to be cool but wasn’t able
She winked at me across the table
To be excused I had to beg
Her bare foot rubbed against my leg
Sitting there between mom and dad
How bold the love my lover had!
Still I love to remember then
The smell of sunshine on her skin

Long Distance

Those long distances;
whether years or miles;
tears or smiles,
that separate what we feel
from what we think;
that urge us to drown the real
in drink
or find some new nepenthe
in the amnesia of pills; the dark and lengthy
painkilling process that kills the infection;
the affection,
by draining the abscess
or the excess
of our hearts
or parts
of our minds that refuse to let go
is in and of itself; painfully slow.
The only solace to our sorrow is
in remembering
what has not been...and hoping…
looking forward to tomorrow.
The distance can be crossed
and all is not lost
unless we choose to lose it
and would we choose it
thus
if our pain; our joy, our lust
were just as much a part of us
as our clear logic instead of magic?
How tragic!
We can’t hold on to youth
or truth
or beauty
because of responsibility to duty
but shall we be just as cynical;
cold and clinical,
in our amputations
of relations
that once meant something to us?
So it costs
a few more cents
to call;
we should have the good sense
to make the effort after all.
And in those suffering
pauses of silent instances
we can learn to shorten by practice
those long distances.
Perhaps we can’t hold
on to youth
or find any universal truth;
beauty fades
like plans we’ve made;
the best laid schemes
of mice and men have failed
and flailed;
drowning while jumping
from a sinking ship;
struggling to swim to the distant
shores of heaven.
How will we cross the vast
and infamous chasm
from earth below to heaven above?
There is no bridge but one.
Poets and philosophers have agreed
in need
to call it love.

Sailing

Upon the sea; wind fills her sails;
Swollen belly of starving ghost
And from the west she lifts her veil
Pulled by breath of Zephyrus

Ocean cradles her wooden child
Gently rocking; her song unravels
Gulls screech high above the beach
Along the coast she swiftly travels

A sailor’s hand; hard-muscled, lean
Calloused from the yard ropes pulled
Steers the lonely Barkentine
Where the gentle wind has lulled

Let her wander where she will
Across oceans vast and blue
Keep her from the doldrums still
Sweet the breeze that blows so true

Great sailfish will spear the air
As dolphins school about her
And jellyfish without a care
Will dance upon the water

She will brave nor’easter’s blast
Pitch and woo the mighty waves
Until she finds her port at last
With trembling cargo she has saved

The Big Chill

I watched The Big Chill the night of the freeze
The temperature dipped below twelve degrees
Halos on my window; hot coffee in hand
Reflections on snow; ribbons cross the land

Barren trees stretch up like crow’s feet
Clawing the sky for vacant summer heat
A yellow coin of moon slipped the grey
Flipping a nightlight switch; imitating day

Dust devil clouds; dancing ice and snow
Whirl and twirl in dervish fandango
The winds cry bitter; sad mournful notes
Wailing, frozen wasteland ghosts

The Art of Drifting

We are fiery autumn leaves
Adrift on the river of time
Carried by reckless currents
As our colors burn and shine

Wash the earth kaleidoscope
Brave as merchant ships
Though we cannot change the course
Let us still enjoy the trip

We are only dandelion seed
Swept by summer wind
Sailing to unknown destinations
Guided but by chance and whim

Let us plant a seed of hope
Wherever our lives touch
And leave a trail of flowers
Along the rocky and the rough

When the Music Stops

Beautiful clown of porcelain and silk
Gold fabric and silver filigreed lace
Wind the key in the center of his back
A sad song plays delicately
A single tear lies motionless on his face

His head inclines; arms outstretched
He looks as if he is longing to embrace
Soft is the whir of his machinery;
The music box invisible
As he moves with awe inspiring grace

When the song ends he stands frozen still
Gone the tinkle of his beautiful chime
Silent, the whir of his mechanism
Silence is louder than music
It speaks of the life within the mime

He is one of many in the collection
But his is the favorite song
Trembling with sadness and beauty
Only he can make you close your eyes
And weep silently for his perfection

That I could have been a porcelain doll
With only a single tear I might cry
Your hand would have wound my heart
I would have played the violin
As the painted sadness slipped… from my eye

The jester will quietly cease moving soon
His embrace comes to a coda and stops
His efforts of animation ended
His beautiful music silenced
They will carry and lay me in my box

The Playground

The sun scraped his knee on the playground of heaven
Bleeding freely across a turquoise eggshell of sky
And though he is a big brave boy, a few tears of rain were shed
But he’s sure to return in the morning, warm and bright

The August moon came following, as baby sisters always do
With a glow of admiration on her face
Chasing the tears of the sun across a vault of midnight blue,
Wrapped in a veil of tattered yellow lace

The twinkling stars sang nursery rhymes in silver shades of silk
Their chorus number; grains of sparkling sand
Skimming stones across the sky through puddles made of milk
And winking at the foolishness of man

To the Mountains

Vast and rolling ancient hills of smoke
The drifting steam of cobweb dreams
Weaves a web between your green
And wraps around your shoulders like a cloak

The pink of dawn upon your rosy cheeks
Rests there like a maiden’s blush
Painted by exquisite celestial brush
Through your veins wind tiny streams and creeks

Rise like mother’s bosom; breath and heartbeat
Teats where I was suckled as a child
Nourishment that made me free and wild
Your wandering paths were velvet on my feet

Perfumed musk of early woodland dawn
Drifts through branches; intoxicating
Drawing the traveler deeper; waiting
Smell of wood and moss and leaf and loam

Lichens, mushrooms, ginseng growing
Laurels thick as honey round the lake
Birds sing to the music that you make
Your arms are full of history and knowing

Oldest, grandest mountains of the earth
Not so high that you are cold and bare
Pioneer settlers raised their children there
Mothers offered offspring from their birth

To play in the woods with Cherokee friends
They were here three thousand years
Until the infamous trail of tears
And whites replaced the noble Indian

Daniel Boone fished and hunted these trails
Before the signing of the Declaration
Before the war that helped to build a nation
Legends and heroes walked among your hills

Though much is recorded in history
Collected in eddies like swirling foam
Bubbles resting green and white as home
Fade into abstraction and mystery

Snows of more than a million winters past
Have melted into your flesh and bone
The bones of men who died lost and alone
Are cradled in your loving arms at last

More beautiful than gentle in your fashion
Glorious are your vistas in the dew
Mountain mornings make all things new
How I love you my dear Appalachians

Heartsong

Color all my soul with song
Paint my passion blue and green
So earth and sky might sing along
With every note of being

Charcoal sketch my lonely hours
Soft as sable robes of night
Heal my heart with summer flowers
Mark my days with golden light

Fill my mind through eyes of beauty
Make my spirit smile and sigh
Give these precious moments to me
Not the words of sad goodbye

Hold my hand; a tiny bird
Whose heart might flutter like a wing
Terrified by life uncertain
I’m a frail and tender thing

Taste my tears just like the sea
Salty full of life and old
Blended by eternity
Hear the stories in me told

Make my epitaph a poem
Offer me no eulogy
Of mourning words when I am gone
Not for simple, foolish me

Youth is wasted on the young
Wisdom is not taught at college
Age would have its memory sung
In understanding more than knowledge

Feel the fire that is my blood
Burning in my secret part
When my song is understood
You will know the poet’s heart

Alchemy

I do not have a heart of gold
I grow weary as I grow old
The young will never understand
The loneliness I speak of
When I was young I dreamed
Some alchemist would come
Along and turn this lead
Inside my chest
Into something precious
But the art of alchemy is dead
The sorcerers are fresh out
Of new apprentices
The last wizard died in Oz
I can not pull the sword
From the stone that is my heart
And I am still alone
Arthur had Merlin
But what good did it do him
When Guinevere loved Lancelot
Magic healed not
His broken heart
Heavy is the burden beneath my ribs
They are a cage of iron bars;
A prison for a thing of worthlessness
How the pulsing throbbing ache
Keeps my spirit wide awake
So I can no longer dream
Though lead melts low
The blood runs cold
From ancient bergs and winter snow
And I am trudging without snowshoes
Mountainous terrain;
The mounting pain of abuse
Perhaps if I only had a staff
To lean upon
Then I could laugh
In the grim face of adversity
When the reaper brought
The hearse for me
I know in my mind my time is short
Do not trouble me with sympathy
Or words of pretended empathy
Can you know my sorrow
And hope yet for tomorrow?
Will you become a martyr to my cause?
Yellow riches run in veins
Throughout the caves
Within the mountains
But I am no miner with pick and shovel;
More gypsy wanderer than lover
I walk alone the drifting snow
Like pilgrims on Kilimanjaro
I wonder at the many dead
From bursting hearts
And aching heads
And I wonder what you would do
To reach the summit of Uhuru
I can no longer make the trek
I rest rather than break my neck
Though illustrious are stories told;
I do not have a heart of gold
This leaden thing inside my chest
Need die before it can find rest
As of yet it knows regret
It cannot find one alchemist
To turn its worthlessness to gold
And I grow weary as I grow old

Songlines

Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org













When the world began in dreamtime
And the earth was formed by songlines
Each place on earth, water and sky
Was marked for the dreamer’s inward eye

There each man is connected by spirit
And the song if he can only hear it
The words are in the language of men
The music comes from without and within

We are closer than we dare to believe
And less real than true reality
Where the passion comes from to create
Is in that dreaming, creative state

The power that formed the evening stars
Is in our minds, our souls and hearts
But we have forgotten those ancient times
And we have lost the sacred songlines

We wake puzzled when we are visited
At night and our minds grow inquisitive
We cannot believe and yet we feel
Like the place from which we came was real

It never occurs to us that the land
The sea and the sky are connected to man
But drawn by ancestors on primitive stone
Are pictures of when we were not so alone

We say that heaven is filled with sweet music
But we never sing or remember to use it
To connect the mortal to the divine
And draw upon the source of the songline

Tonight when you close your eyes to sleep
And the dreaming world comes soft and deep
Remember the music which you have heard
And speak to your brothers the sacred words

We may be connected while there is still time
Through the sweet music and beautiful rhyme
If we only will search we might find
Our way cross the earth to heaven’s songline

The Moon in June

She peeked between the fingers of clouds
and scattered gold dust through the shadows;
whispered words to the warm wind and
wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
Morning glories climbing the garden fence
trailed love letters in heart shaped leaves.
They never speak to her or sing their song
but trumpet their colors to the dawn believing
she’s still there but her light has gone.
The veiled brides of June are soon to wed;
trellised arches of flowers for their vows;
pillows of lover’s lace upon their beds
and wreaths of expectation on their brows.
They shed their innocence like moonlight;
soft as whispered promises of love.
When the morning comes, will they be wise?
The moon will not be shining from above.

Flowers

Among the stones on windswept rim
A fragile flower grew
Painted like dainty butterfly wing
Drinking the morning dew

Gossamer tendrils stretch from birth
Beneath the arid ground
Seeking sustenance from the earth
Moving without a sound

Through the gray-green filaments
Blood of ages pass
Dazzling colors and nutrients
That spill in bloom at last

We are become much like the plant
Among the sand and stone
Who by survival must supplant
Infertile flesh and bone

And let the spirit’s winding roots
Sink deep into the soil
Producing green and vibrant shoots
That stretch through time and toil

Then our soul’s true colors seen
Among the brittle clay
Might be a fit bright offering
In heaven’s rich bouquet

Footsteps

In a deserted empty house
The middle of the night
Footsteps in an adjacent room
As I turn on the light
No one there, I lay awake
All night listening
For creaking floorboards
Bumping furniture
The footsteps come no more

Walking home on darkened streets
A foggy mist of rain
Footsteps soft on forest leaves
Breaking twigs inside my brain
I spin around in misty halos
Bats flit by the streetlamp
Nothing there, I walk again
Listening in the damp

Again, again, the hairs on end
All along my spine
And down both arms, a shiver runs
Footsteps keeping time
Across the roof under the moon
The dog whines on his chain
The click of patent leather shoes
Impossible to explain

What sort of creature silently
Walks rooftops late at night
But disappears in mockery
When I turn on the lights
Outside my bedroom window
Just before the dawn
I wake to sounds of breathing
I know I’m not alone

Footsteps pause behind the curtain
A dragging, shuffling fright
Madness messengers, I am certain
Footsteps come for me tonight