A BRITTLE RETROSPECTIVE
provocative
innovative
sensibilities
seminal
decorous
imitations
experiments
impeccably
ingenious
determination
of
febrile
serendipity
in
possibilities
of
myriad
perspectives
The rivers cough,
Their waters grey and sulky, with exhaustion,
Bitting at the banks that once held,
Children's laughter.
The lethargic trees wear ashes like armour,
Leaves brittle, whispering warnings
That no one ever listens to.
Drifting smoke climbing like a their,
Stealing the Blue from the sky,
Painting the sun in dull bruises,
Where we pretend not to see.
Even the wind carries a taste of metal and sadness;
The birds sing quite than ever,
There wings heavy with weight
Of a world forgetting how to breath.
Yet somewhere beneath the ground
The earth still hums softly,
Waiting for hands that will not choke it;
For mouths that will speake
Before the last river sleeps.
Stardom beams, ascends,
thin arms lit in show-time glare—
fame salts fragile skin.
applause hardens inside out
talent burns bright, then burns out.
Replays harken back
success narrows its focus
to reclaim heaped praise.
inspiration in tatters,
worn out by adulation
Tall poppies are cut,
brittle star loses its arms
pulls back, swells its head
drunk on self-adulation—
it's well past its use-by-date.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
frost-etched windowpane~
a crow’s dark shadow flickers
through the brittle light
As I lay on mounds of a shoreline,
weightless in eyes' astounded spirit
blending with angels, dirt, and crosses;
my soul bears this emptiness
in writhing streams omnipresent for day
and twilight's heavy float-- hours change
beyond primitive instincts--a landscape
of bittersweet cycles appear, and below it,
the fluidity from incandescent waters lap
on mouths of frozen stars requesting patience.
Here am i sprouting below, above and under
their flesh; fulfilling my need for deliverance
out of some needled pinch :
awash by whimper of rain , all senses
moored and fashioned so lamely
on brittle soil of life unlived ,
seeking a depth of quiet within myself
time rippling upon this decayed shell undersea...
yet nothing came except a leaf falling.
Thin skin, fragile bone,
Hearts that break, a whispered fear,
Dust to dust we fall.
©bfa030225
Her grandfather called her to their front yard,
“Come here, my child.”
“I want to show you how to mend this net,”
he said tenderly,
his fingers weathered like the ropes he held,
gnarled and worn like ancient driftwood.
But her gaze drifted towards the horizon
the pull of its horizon stronger than the weight
of his quiet hopes.
“I don’t want to learn,”
she grumbled under her breath,
kicking the dust, a powdery veil
that crumbled and shifted beneath her feet,
to leave his pride untouched.
The old man sighed,
“One day you’ll wish you had,”
and left it at that.
his hands busy with the knot,
hers busy avoiding the duty
as she played with the hem of her dress.
Years later,
when the net sat coiled and brittle,
in a forgotten corner of her mind,
she found herself standing by the ocean
her hands clumsy,
wishing for the wisdom
she once refused to take.
She understood that minute
what he never said:
Some things are not for the moment-
but meant for when the moment has gone.
With brittle quill the page is torn
No longer words of passion born
The poet slowly wilts and dies
Lays down his pen and softly sighs
Like petals of an aging flower
That withers more from hour to hour
In mourning of creative death
Eloquence draws its final breath
i'm
connected to
a brittle
branch
disconnected
from a
tree of
life
i
i am
i am writing
i am running
out of time
i write in a place
out of time
i write in a time
out of place
it's go time
it's gone
time has gone
time is wasted
i'm going
nowhere
where
anything goes
into a wasted
land
out of time
for
i am
writing
out of time
for
time is wasting
words
for
words
create timeless
despair
despair
breaks
a brittle
branch
inside my
treeless life
inside a timeless
tomb
i
i am
i am building
i build a
bridge to
no land
i
i write
i am writing
these poems
these poems
write me
these poems
erase me
time
erases
me
Fall colors
fade to brown,
brittle leaves
that crackle
underfoot
with a crunch,
inviting
my inner
child to play.
Now an avocado
Is more precious than
An apple
But not in the childhood days
We knew only an apple
The first English word we learnt
The first picture we drew
The fruit mum used to pray to her god
The fruit she handed to us
After worshipping for 15 days
We only learnt that
An apple is soft
But not brittle
An apple has a flat smell
But not a fragrant smell
Now I have an avocado
I won't ask for more
But I won't ever forget
The hand
which handed me
A red apple
Brittle boy, body of porcelain
feelings of glass
A flurry of punches left him battered
the slightest insult, shattered
Brittle Silence
It is afternoon,
and the coffee pot was never turned off.
It is still burning even now.
The liquid inside... black,
and in dire need of cream,
and sugar.
I flip the switch, and pour a cup,
of the intense brew.
There is a message waiting,
for my attention...
as the milk is introduced,
and the honey leveled,
I smell the question,
and the answer at the same time.
The true reason,
for every season... is "time".
Too much, too little, too late.
Cooked and burned.
Simmered... until overdone.
Historically, out of place.
I walk back to my space.
I sit down at the desk
and glance about for a pen, or pencil.
There is none.
Instead, the computer awaits my attention.
It is always there.
It sometimes will even stare... at me.
I have to answer, like a scratch,
that must be attended to,
or it will simply drive you mad.
I grasp the hot beverage with my right hand.
I bring it to my lips, knowing it will hurt...
in a good way?
It will sear my lips, but wake me up,
from a dream,
which is neither good nor bad.
There is no jury to decide the difference
at this point.
Often we say the most lovable things to each other
But often we lie
We speak for the moment
And fall victim to Reality
Love’s brittle bone syndrome
The plated chrome covers the real issue
Because too little has been refined by the fire
In order to show the standard of gold in our hearts
Fear takes the loveable things that were said
And shows its weakness because
Words mean nothing without action
A fraction of our mind wonders about the accuracy of love
And the reality that echoes the true meaning behind our actions.
Often we say the most lovable things to each other
But often we lie because
Often we are in love with the process—
The process of falling in love and not
The circular nature of Love and so
We fall victim to love’s brittle bone syndrome
Mark Frank
Copyright 2022
Rustling, brittle leaves
Blown by the divinely wind
The essence of life.
Dated::03 .08.2021
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