That treacle genie
my wildflower,
passion beyond all perversions,
steer my soul into gentle wars
and clean the scabs I gather
from your havoc.
No shipwrecks lurk within those
jelly green waters,
no shark to savage sleep.
King of the hunt
with a morpheous tipped arrow,
lay me down in mystic tar...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Sunday 31 May 2009
Saturday 23 May 2009
A Poet's Path
Eveyone is chipped from the womb to explore different things in Life. What would surely kill one person is merely a flesh wound to somebody else.
Explorers like Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Jaques Cousteux seek the planets crusts and bile, probing strange and dangerous new routes.
Composers like Mozart and Handel search the wind, looking for beautiful whispers from Gods in the clouds.
And we poets and writers travel to those most lethal and alluring of places, the mind and soul of Man, where survival depends not on compasses or violin strings but on guile and the ability to con.
@ Steven Francis 23rd May 2009
Explorers like Sir Ranulph Fiennes and Jaques Cousteux seek the planets crusts and bile, probing strange and dangerous new routes.
Composers like Mozart and Handel search the wind, looking for beautiful whispers from Gods in the clouds.
And we poets and writers travel to those most lethal and alluring of places, the mind and soul of Man, where survival depends not on compasses or violin strings but on guile and the ability to con.
@ Steven Francis 23rd May 2009
Thursday 14 May 2009
Hedonist & Sasquatch
May weather brings lambs
to daisy hems,
sunshine twists on bracelets
like pond skaters skipping on trout.
Afternoon ice cream
jellybeans on cheeks,
there is no cauldron more glorious or alive
than a river in Spring gloss.
Streak of light
putting ghosts in cribs
and nudging shadow into the mouth
of Venus.
Frosted glasses of plum wine
spill over hampers of mutton and berries,
as damsels in undress grope in barns
like excited lizards on railway sleepers.
Neither bully nor Death
has a page in this scene;
jam scones on a sunday teatime
swat the hammerheads into gasoline coma.
Dried mud paths lead to a
mullet brown harbour,
where chips shops and plastic buckets
turn the air into a potent fog,
pickled lungs never been so glad
but never as full as memories eye.
Those furnace fields still ablaze
long after the gates fell.
Western Man in a painting
for the East...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
to daisy hems,
sunshine twists on bracelets
like pond skaters skipping on trout.
Afternoon ice cream
jellybeans on cheeks,
there is no cauldron more glorious or alive
than a river in Spring gloss.
Streak of light
putting ghosts in cribs
and nudging shadow into the mouth
of Venus.
Frosted glasses of plum wine
spill over hampers of mutton and berries,
as damsels in undress grope in barns
like excited lizards on railway sleepers.
Neither bully nor Death
has a page in this scene;
jam scones on a sunday teatime
swat the hammerheads into gasoline coma.
Dried mud paths lead to a
mullet brown harbour,
where chips shops and plastic buckets
turn the air into a potent fog,
pickled lungs never been so glad
but never as full as memories eye.
Those furnace fields still ablaze
long after the gates fell.
Western Man in a painting
for the East...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Tuesday 5 May 2009
End/Gone (Sand on Pavements)
The thought behind this piece was nothing is really solid. All our memories are unique and when we die the memories die too. Almost like nothing in life really happened.
Everything has gone,
all that life
that never was
has gone.
Places past
that were worn on sleeves
but never were,
have gone.
Childhood summers
of peaches and cafe arcades
which never were,
all gone.
Everything that never was
gone to meet its End...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Everything has gone,
all that life
that never was
has gone.
Places past
that were worn on sleeves
but never were,
have gone.
Childhood summers
of peaches and cafe arcades
which never were,
all gone.
Everything that never was
gone to meet its End...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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