Lessons from the Choir Loft

A songbird woke me at three in the morning
In the pitch black smallest hours he sang
He warbled his chirps and twitters till dawn
I was so amused that I could not complain

Not a nightingale or whippoorwill; this
He roused the neighbors who turned on their lights
And as day began to sift through the trees
A chorus began to share his delight

It was clear he could not wait for the morning
Bound by the joy of sheer existence
At the top of his voice he sang until dawn
Perhaps thinking he brought it by mere persistence

And who am I to argue his logic
If indeed he had that thought in his mind
Enough beauty can certainly bring light
Enough light can open the eyes of the blind

So what if I am deprived of a little rest
At least I was entertained by the concert
In the dawn I spied him not far from his nest
I pulled on my boots and buttoned my shirt

As I walked out to listen to the Sunday choir
I found my own joy in my morning search
I whispered forgiveness for the early hour
And cathedral mountains became my church

Smolder

The rasp of a beetle against a window glass
Turned the sleeper in his fitful dream
The night was heavy as honey; thick as sorghum
And sooty syrup filled his lungs with charcoal

The stomach seethes with eager embers
When every breath is a fan to the flame
Skin hangs clammy cool against bones
The sickly boiled flesh is wrung to drain

Flame burns in the whiskey forge below
The sleeper groans in crushing pains
Someone is stacking stones on his mortal form
He lies pinned in the agony of suffocation

A ship is lost at sea in still doldrums
No wind stirs to fill her ghostly sails
She sits frozen as dark-finned shadows circle
Patience feeds the faceless scavengers

The dragging of chains across a wooden floor
Precedes the sliding bolt of a mammoth door
The sleeper struggles with his fear of death
Listening, he hears the draw of raspy breath

A ragged inhale brings rattles but no relief
The exhale is not his; it comes from somewhere below
Beads of sweat pour to his soaking pillow
To his terror he realizes the sound of bellows

A flash of flame envelops the dreamer
His eyes burst open in yellow light
A solitary bulb hangs from the ceiling
Sixty watts of hell in a sultry summer night

The Lucky Optimist

Bending over a field of clover
Counting petals over and over
Searching for his four leafed luck
Into a buttonhole he might tuck

I present the incurable optimist
The wisher of fate innocuous
Bearer of all good tidings and glad
Looking for hope as if he were mad

It matters not if he finds the thing
I am certain he’ll go on searching
It’s in the way of the optimist
Not to give up before success

Still he gives all the credit to luck
But now in the field he’s been stuck
For the better part of half an hour
Counting clovers and picking flowers

Patience

Patience is the advantage of old folks and fishermen
It is a forte not to be taken too lightly by any as well
If a person can wait without allowing petty distraction
There is life to be caught by the slippery shirttail

Things seldom turn out according to our plans
The plans of others and things unplanned are always cropping up
The schedule and the itemized list are the vex of man
Things forgotten are always at work in the tumbling tines of karma

So there we end up; speared like kabobs with no escape
Headed for the fire to be cooked for good or ill
And generally muttering like the fox about sour grapes
As old chef time prepares to sauté us on the grill

But the patient know that this too in time may pass
The patient are not distracted by facades of wealth and fame
Because there is no telling how long a fad or a man may last
And they have yet to feel the scorching of the flame

The exercise of discretion builds muscles of morale
But not the type one usually earns at the gymnasium
Confidence that is bulging is generally an act of denial
But patience is an attribute of old folks and fishermen

Adventure in the Storm.

Adventure in the Storm


He stood upon the wooded hill; eyes squinted against the falling snow
Staring with longing and hunger at the farmhouse far below
The smell of meat and burning fat was faintly discernable on the wind
His nose twitched and his belly growled as flakes drifted through barren limbs

He saw the big black ranch dogs; Newfoundland, by the looks of them
Drop-tailed and worried he backed into the pines; careful they did not see him
He is familiar with the rifles of the ranchers and this particular breed of dog
They are every bit as big as him; he paws the snow and settles in by a hollow log

The gray and silver folds of his winter coat make excellent camouflage
He thinks and ponders about the smoke, the rancher; the rifle and the dogs
A storm is moving in and blue-black clouds herald the threat of more snow
Through covering shadows he can see lights below inside the frosted windows

When he was young and running with the pack he was adventurous and bold
Now own his own, it was stealth and cunning; not valor, that let him get this old
In the middle of the night; the storm raging, the rancher brought his dogs inside
Carefully he crept; inch by inch, forever vigilant, slowly down the mountainside

A cache of ham was hanging in a tree, tied securely to a higher limb
The rancher was smart and cunning too; but maybe not as smart as him
Methodically, he set about his work stopping only to rest or to listen
He pawed the snow until he felt dirt, then alternated, changing his position

The drifts were up to seven feet and he packed them solid with his heavy paws
Standing on his wolf-made mountain, he jumped and sank in teeth and jaws
Rocking his weight with the weight of the ham, the frozen limb began to crack
He quickly released it and let it fall; barely missing his shoulder and back

Quickly now, gnawing at the cords that wrapped his sweet and smoky prize
Inside the house came the creak of floorboards, he glanced up with knowing eyes
The rancher had heard the limb break and was coming out to check his cache
His rifle in hand and dogs at his heels; he couldn’t believe he’d met his match

A fifteen foot high ridge rose paw-packed around where his ham had been
His tedious knots were chewed clean through and the wolf? No sign of him.
Safe in a stone outcropping; high on a lonely hill, he gorges himself with pleasure
Dangerous work but the night is still as he enjoys the taste of his treasure

Eternal

The tree of life is Eternal
Though many winding courses travel
Among its branches and through its roots
All things are intertwined and irreversibly linked

Time and space are neither linear nor lonely
They are the life that drives the tree to leaf
We bud but for a moment brief
We wither and we fall

Among the sacred roots we are absorbed
And our lives become the nourishment
Of every history and future
All that we love and everything beautiful

Roots sunk into the foundation of the universe
Push branches high into the heavens; growing
The universe is expanding and we with it
Our knowledge transcending into the divine

When we reach that sacred Nirvana
We will be as delicate birds set among the branches
Singing the creation of the world;
Part of everything; now blessed with wings to fly

Fisherman

The line is cast in waters of hope
Failing to obtain the goal; cast again in faith
The Fisherman is patient
He needs nourishment for his soul
There is comfort in this recreation
There is peace of one who waits
To improve his situation
He may change his station or his bait
But seldom is his creel without
Upon returning home
He seldom harbors any doubt
But waits for fish to come
My soul is like the line cast out
In hope that harbors little doubt
Cast again by love within
I am a determined Fisherman



© 2011 Fabian G. Franklin

Understanding Beauty

The beauty of the rose is in the bud
Fresh is the flower being born
The scent of youth is strong and good;
Sweet as the dew of a summer morn

The beauty of the leaf is in the fall
When colors burn in fiery blaze
Orange and yellow; crimson all
Mellow; the ending of its days

The beauty of man is flower and leaf
Newborn babe and ancient wise
Beginning joy and ending grief
Innocent and knowing eyes

We are fragile as the flowers,
Stronger than the mighty oak;
In our sad and lonely hours
Words of love and faith are smoke

Let us comfort one another
Like infant held in wrinkled hands
Brother, sister, father, mother;
Spring and autumn on the land

Burning leaves and budding blooms
There is beauty in the plan
Old age for youth is making room
And Mother Nature understands

Shackles

Pregnant pain gave birth to addiction
Swollen up and swallowed up by herself
Need put iron shackles on her feet
Braded brass pins with hopeless hammers

Outside the stone cell, freedom danced in flowers
But the walls seeped lonely ache from within
A squirrel hiding acorns dug between the cracks
And buried a treasure in long forgotten soil

Little light fell through the bars; broken on the floor;
The ashamed sun came but for a few moments
But roots sunk lower to find rain beneath the stones
Then, like all things green, a living stem rose secretly

Photosynthesis showed baby pictures of life
And the pain longed to be pregnant again
She built a cradle of hope with nothing to fill it
And then mourned her abortion of love

Silent rage burned away inside the stones
Melting them like wax and winter snow
In the hope of different, the same was abandoned
The shackles of addiction were broken

She could barely crawl but soon could walk
Blinded by sun; the confusion too much to bear
But she remembered the cradle and brought it out
It came with a whimper and a tear

Flowers were blooming again that year
She filled the bassinet like a basket with petals
And the colors joined to take wing as butterflies
Freedom flittered and danced and she followed

When freedom was full, she gave birth to joy
Swollen up and bursting with her baby boy
Forgiveness put booties on his feet
And baby lamb’s wool lulled him to sleep

Prison melted into the past; in its place, a tree
The seed had come to fruition at last
The limbs stretched forth to grasp the sun
And on each branch hung golden poetry

Rain on Main

The tortoise shell umbrellas spread like gospel tents
Against the drumming rain and sailing mournful wind
Huddled shadows; turned up collars braced into tinsel-tiny
Pearls; each spherical world; a sea of wayfaring minstrels

Tambourines rattled down puddles; gurgled in gutters
Danced on windowpanes and slid down shutters
Across vaulted awnings of coffee shops and cafes
Rivulets of silver wound through dirt of an ordinary day

And all the busy people with briefcases under overcoats
Were frightened of the water army; a billion droplets strong
They could find no place for music in their souls; a saddened note
Where the rain, like pain, is feared and has no place to belong

A madman; soaked hair streaming down his shoulders
No hat or spring loaded dome of protection held in hand
Grasped above his head a gray newspaper unfolded
And skipped across brown potholes; laughing as he ran

Stones

STONES

We are children of earth and water;
Born of fire and sky
We recede with the ocean’s ebb
We swell with fury in the tide
Countless grains of brine washed sand
Often find communion
Partaking of the Creator
To fashion and form unions
Structures indivisible;
Bits of sand and salt and shell
Containing lives of memory creatures
That we become as well
I would not leave you abandoned
Would not see you cast out; apart
Though I am nothing more than man
I offer these with my heart
These little pieces of stones;
To remind you of the ocean’s flow;
That the tide pulls not one heart alone
But each part in all; when beckoned goes
I will see you on some distant shore
And we may share a naked sunrise
Opening a heavenly door
Opening our weary eyes
Being part of one another for the first time
Seeing through our inward eye
Where earth and water children go;
Born of fire and sky.

Hard Scrub

There is rage beyond the rain
But there is peace in quiet
The mountain is still this morning
But it softly whispers of the rage

There was lightning in the night
Cracking jagged whips of fire
That turned the maple’s faces white
Now birds sing quietly to the dawn

The hard has worn the morning tender
The rough rubbing of the fearful night
Now the sun will bake day clean and
We’ll see what’s strong enough to survive.

Ride

Vibrations from between his legs
Voice raw and intrinsic power
Urged like a horse at the starting gate
Uttering a low and guttural growl

Gloved hand on the right rubber grip,
Left finger hooked as thumb pins the clutch
Steel toed boot rests on peg
Tip tripping the gear into first

Pulling away, hears the gravel crunch
Under the heavy rolling tires
Turns back the throttle and squeezes the clutch
Engine answers with warm desire

Fourth gear echoes a melodious hum
As asphalt miles fly by
The world is a prairie in a cowboy’s dream
Before there were fences and wire

The wind cuts deep into laugh lines worn
Around the odd traveler’s eyes
Oh, and it seems like he was born
With steel and thunder between his thighs

One great beast; this man and machine
Set out to conquer the world
Passing the vistas of gypsy dreams
And longing glances from glamorous girls

Through farmlands and desert, by seashore and shop
He leans in the hard curves of life
The cement of cities can’t make him stop
Or the fields when the harvest is ripe

His eye is tuned to the gauges and mirrors
His heart; with the pounding of iron
Between his two wheels life looks much clearer
Than the dirty world with its grime

Yet even steel ponies must rest in the barn
When the tired old biker is spent
But he’ll dream tonight in his lady’s arms
Of when he’ll go riding again

The First Step

The first step is often the most difficult
Falling can add injury to insult

It takes a leap of faith to fly;
From a trembling limb to say goodbye

Love can sometimes stretch our wings
And prepare hearts for dangerous things

Stepping out on faith; into the blue
Be careful of the step but be brave too

Fields at Dawn

Leaning against the corral gate
My collar turned against the wind
I await the exit of the clouds
The anemic sun’s strengthening

Winter fields shiver in February cold
Bleak grey skies rise to blue
Last spring’s promise; lost and old
Dreams of summers past fade too

Frosted grass surveyed by cows
Which only stand and stare
Into the chilly morning breeze
As if the sun were there

Chestnut horses snort their steam
Galloping from highway’s edge
Frightened by a semi rumbling
Across the steel and concrete brid

Bloodless morning; no rosy cheeks
In heaven as red as my own
Glistening snow on distant peaks
Shines silent over fields at dawn


Crows caw across withered stalks;
Sheaves of corn husks tied for fodder
The queen of frost beckoning, lost
In the wind for her crystal daughter

Ice princess answers; biting my lip
And earlobes with her playful sting
Without my notice she quietly slips
Between the layers of my clothing

I walk down to read the Fahrenheit
On the barn it reads twenty degrees
I wrap my jacket around me tight
And hear the sighing of the breeze


Cold air filled with the threat of snow
Embers glow on the hearth at home
Crackling sleet bites at my window
Crossing winter fields at dawn

Life is a Long December

Life is a long December
When the nights are cold
And arms are empty
Years just go by passing

Without a woman’s touch
A man can turn to stone
Within, an epitaph; carved,
Lived and died, alone

It is a futile thing…
To try to share one’s soul
It is most unappreciated
And never understood at all

The butterfly cares not
Whether we find it beautiful
Nor does the rose
But man is vain as a peacock

He must have the universe
His way or no way at all
There is much darkness
On the way to touch a star

When the night comes
I’ll walk beneath the street lamps
Along the sidewalk
And count the lights

Left on in bedroom windows
Yellow lights of love
In family houses
And lover’s apartments

But away from the lights
I see heaven more clearly
A hundred billion lights
Twinkling in the dark

Something familiar there
Alone among the stars
Calling out my name
And my spirit reaches


Is it cold in outer space?
Are you warmed by yellow sun?
How will I find your galaxy?
Can I hold you in my arms?

It’s cold here on planet earth
Love is barely remembered
We reach for a burning star
But life is a long December

December Fire

A blanket of burning lava spilled across the hills.
It flowed into the sky and set fire to the clouds.
The boiling heavens drifted east to morning;
pink cotton candy bubbling in an ocean of blue.

The eleventh of December was bitterly cold.
The embers in the sky were deceptively bold.
The sweetness vanished before the rising sun
as burning beauty turned golden on the lawn.

Now distant purple mountains smolder.
Halos of fog surround them…celestial crowns.
The world wakes; stumbling to the highways;
pilgrims oblivious to the red fires of dawn.

Clouds

Gentle mist stirring above
Tranquil floating kiss of love
Upon the frozen cheek of sky
Winter mornings passing by

Forecast rain or sleet and snow
Tell me where your spirits go
Appearing silent from the blue
Vanishing in heaven’s hue

Summer doldrums breeze might stir
Hoary tufts of rabbit’s fur
Magic tendrils disappear
Into vaults of nervous air

Anvils in the heavens hang
Purple bruises flashing fangs
In bolts electric and exciting
Rumbling thunder, jagged lightning

Children lying in green meadows
Imagine shifting animals
Fantastic dragons and unicorns
Are there by fantasy reborn

Not a place to have one’s head
Like angels for their blissful bed
Bellows of the wind might billow
Sails of rest; celestial pillows

Ethereal white; your wedding veils
Listening for the golden bells
From the sun to shine and sing
In morning like the bright dove’s wing

The black and gray of rainy days
Has sung your darker harmonies
But sweet the pink of soft reflections
Cotton candy spun confections

In my mental predilections
Make you nearer to perfection
Heaven’s curtains; cotton shroud
Blanket me with drifting clouds

Between the Lines

The most important things have no words;
the brilliance of a sunrise; the song of birds.

They aren’t often appreciated as any other;
the hard work of father; the patience of mother.

We expect them to be there and they never fail;
so we neglect them; taking for granted all is well.

Oxygen is invisible and without a sound or taste.
We discount every breath we take that cannot be replaced.

We do not count the seconds, the minutes or the hours
until we arrive at the grave in a hearse full of flowers.

Time creeps up on each of us; stealthily quiet;
it only announces itself as the hair turns white.

The body grows weak and wrinkled and frail
but passage of time is hidden beneath a veil.

Perhaps vowel and consonant sounds are not employed;
in an infants cry; in tears… a new bride sheds in joy.

These important things would seem absurd
if each had to be promptly written down in words

Eliot said he’d measured out his life in coffee spoons
I have measured mine by stars and phases of the moon

My silly lines of poetry mostly go unheard;
though sung by every sunrise and every mockingbird

Winter Hunt

Ears like mobile radar against the setting sun
Across the snow he travels; listening
Deep in winter burrows other creatures slumber
While above; the silent white lay glistening

Pointed nose, pointed teeth; mouth like a smile
His whiskers gather crystals in the cold
Thick fur protects him across the frozen miles
As sun reflects on ice; its yellow hint of gold

He stops with radar erect; alert and excited at once
Head tilts checking the exact location twice
Head first into the snow he makes a lightning pounce
He all but disappears in a cloud of snow and ice

Scarlet droplets on the white testify success
A field rat has met an untimely demise
Clumps of loose snow still frozen to his chest
Bones crunch as Mr. Fox enjoys his prize