Pauper, the Next

What is this I see before me?
Hell in all its glory...

Death.
Die.
Pass into emblem of state,
no file await the Hollywood
this time.
No Nightingale lines the larynx.
Not for you
flashpoint God
Of yellow lines and slender tantrum.

Adore today
adieu today,
but not the night
when you silently pass
(without fanfare)
into the It,
the What.
Whatever.
Bone broke
Thomas with green,
brackets with sulphur.
Click boxes
and the bait men would raise
and seethe...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

The Grave Mischief of Lady Betty

Bloodthirsty Bet what have you done?
The stranger dead
your only son.

Taught him money was warm as gin,
and greed it was
that put a blade in him.

Time passed slowly in Roscommon gaol
fearing the scaffolds shadow
and hemp pigtail.

She was not alone on her final night,
and all condemned
cursed the morning light.

On the chosen day no hangman came,
but Death was eager
so upped the game.

As Bet stepped onto the gallows cloud
she removed the noose
and said aloud;

'Spare my neck and i'll hang the others!'
And so it was,
she swung her convict brothers.

No souls it seemed could quench fair Bet,
the Irish bloodhound
children won't forget...

© Steven Francis poems 2009

Six Times As Much As Six

Oh where for thou art!
Cavort through metal stalks
toward adder throated kings
laying lower than a baptist.
Daughter of a bamboo bruise,
the hunt six six six,
for birch bodied kettle teens
who hark for cadaver lined strumpets,
toppling on their bayonet heels
and hitching up their wolves for howling.

God rest the mission 666;
wake digital spells unto homebrews.
march gator heads to their hernias
to hernias in shadows
where domed headed children
lurk below as punks.
Always beneath
the simmering blast of summer
blinds a devil's eye
and bands of saturated flesh
seep death sauce to its hunter...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Footwork

We live
we play music
we tip our shadows to the puddles,
we drive and cook
we love
think ourselves brave at music strokes
and we die.
There is no more to it,
no more thought or philosophies
we kiss we walk
we stroke the cat and die...

© Steven Francis poems 2012

Coal Man (Relative of Death)

I am no fun
tick no mercy in your box of chances
as I leap around your shaggy frame
to shake it into putrid mulch.
When I am done (this no good fun)
no medicine or friend will recognise you,
or son or daughter find comfort in holding fathers hand
as it withers in a paper bed.
Disease tenants,
I love you to death...

@ Steven Francis poems 2012

Linkway Magazine

My poetry inside...

In Burry Port (my hometown) back in 1993 a lady named Fay Davies (a writer herself) published the Linkway magazines pictured above. It featured poetry mostly but short stories were also included on occasion. Naturally being an enthusiastic, young poet I submitted my early works to the publication and they appeared in several editions (all of the ones in pic) of which I was pleased.
One must remember that in the early nineties, blogging and publishing work on your own website hadn't yet arrived so to have a platform like Linkway where your work was distributed all over Carmarthenshire, was very exciting. Even more so for this hungry poet because I loved seeing my works in print with my name underneath boldly announcing my arrival.


Shine young poet!