God, don't give me a 4a.m.
like yesterdays again;
let me slip the aching gallows
allow me sleep through sombre shadows,
as the ghosts that pinch my bones
find saner beds to sour.
No need for empty grates
to burn with morning hate,
filthy sandman home again
with mortal bells on each a.m.
Future flower, flower bruised
gallant dawn be gold...
@ Steven Francis poems 2012
Reading
'The Heron Ponds' is the 7th collection of poetry and short stories from Welsh poet, writer and blogger Steven Francis. Enjoy!
Friday 27 January 2012
Sunday 22 January 2012
Use By...
Immortal
here and now
in the present
today,
ever after
this day and night
clock strikes, bang!
This second
not yesterday or tomorrow,
this minute
today.
Not past or future,
shillings roll in instant
immediate
on time.
Immortal shakes
never rest,
lose the grip
in split seconds.
Dawn breaks today
only today,
in the present,
the happy ever after
is a con job.
@ Steven Francis poems 2012
Reading
here and now
in the present
today,
ever after
this day and night
clock strikes, bang!
This second
not yesterday or tomorrow,
this minute
today.
Not past or future,
shillings roll in instant
immediate
on time.
Immortal shakes
never rest,
lose the grip
in split seconds.
Dawn breaks today
only today,
in the present,
the happy ever after
is a con job.
@ Steven Francis poems 2012
Reading
Friday 20 January 2012
Dame H With A Canvas Limb (to married women)
Behold the pinched eyelet!
That three eyed heart is woken,
as she is framed for me
on crooked toes from nylon hammocks,
to tune the mossy summer whipsnake.
Dame Hollywood on Yellowbrick glossies
sidles to the scaffold pole;
she swears by affairs and furious cocaine binges
and her hilt is target by my wily range,
a fibre gizzard of inertia.
Thou art not perfect
with that flapping, moustached barnacle
on your frilly hip;
but shy not from me glassy babe
and I will pose and dare
to throw homecooked colics onto marble cheeks
as our thighs twist in excelsis grinds
kinked in endorphin hernias.
Arrest these neon arms on Dwynwens night
to defy not deify the solemn vows
and make us stand like statuettes
on starless hills visited only by prey riders.
Tryst angels in secluded coils,
crash onto sequined crests
as mania draws exotic barley from salacious roots
until beaks are at the bells again.
A solid sleep beneath clouded fathoms
to ward off widows in their paper flames...
@ Steven Francis poems 2012
The reading:
That three eyed heart is woken,
as she is framed for me
on crooked toes from nylon hammocks,
to tune the mossy summer whipsnake.
Dame Hollywood on Yellowbrick glossies
sidles to the scaffold pole;
she swears by affairs and furious cocaine binges
and her hilt is target by my wily range,
a fibre gizzard of inertia.
Thou art not perfect
with that flapping, moustached barnacle
on your frilly hip;
but shy not from me glassy babe
and I will pose and dare
to throw homecooked colics onto marble cheeks
as our thighs twist in excelsis grinds
kinked in endorphin hernias.
Arrest these neon arms on Dwynwens night
to defy not deify the solemn vows
and make us stand like statuettes
on starless hills visited only by prey riders.
Tryst angels in secluded coils,
crash onto sequined crests
as mania draws exotic barley from salacious roots
until beaks are at the bells again.
A solid sleep beneath clouded fathoms
to ward off widows in their paper flames...
@ Steven Francis poems 2012
The reading:
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