Asked about
his gender
The Son
says “NO”
“I created
them solely
for procreation
to flow
“The love child
of Mary
and My Father
on high
“I purpose
them both
my Holy Spirit
— alive”
********
Never
Living to the max
the writing comes easy
(BUT)
You’ll never live easy
— and write to the max
********
The Temptress
The Divine Tyranny
of Art
Whose anguished temptation
forever imparts
It grows in your spirit
while taking its tole
And leaves you abandoned
¬ — alone unconsoled
********
Come Rocinante
He was a pilgrim
in defense of a shrine
That doesn’t exist
a mirage in the wind
A new Don Quixote
tilting at windmills
His gaze but a portal
— to the fire within
(Dreamsleep: July, 2026)
He floats just above the waterline of humor
I never know if he’s on the level or not,
peers over the edge, on the brink of absurd rumor.
Maybe human mirth has been squeezed out of him
while tilting at windmills; open hostility is his escape
whips out to a froth any sea of affection at his whim.
It is a carefully crafted facade, and he plays it like a master
like a tenantless temple looking for souls to save
or a gypsy staring at his crystal bowl for any disaster.
He could caress with flattery, or bite with harsh insight,
uses silence as his weapon to control dialogue
but turns on a smile a reassuring crescent in the night.
Awareness hums between us - he’s a magician
plucking out a dove of intimacy from his sleeve,
then he’s gone like a shadow running from the sun.
@jjote022924
Off to Foreign Lands
By Franklin Price
5/15/2018
Off to foreign lands exotic
Tilting at windmills so Quixotic
Know not much of what I should expect
Different language place to place
To put a smile upon my face
My accent and my words are not correct
Crossing one of two large oceans
Keeping me from food and potions
Ones I thought that I would never see
Here's something I should say
About these places far away
They should be speaking good old English just like me
I speak not a word of thinking this,
Of these foreign places, I'm a fan
Don't want to appear uncaring
Another ugly, not so smart, American
Multi-coloured whirlygigs
and dangling dvd mobiles
have a playful role
protecting my potted
young Blueberry bushes
from hungry for worm birds
digging up the plants
I might even add a baby monitor
making the sculpture
complete.
The pretentiousness of I
Tilting at windmills
In the hope of
Dulcinea
Little did I know that
My Shadow
Had the only giants
To be found
[too late for the contest - but the title gave me inspiration to write one]
You caught me casting my eyes on you
above the gaps of heads clustering
inside a subway train, packed tight
against each other, absorbed in their own thoughts
perhaps envisioning their day ahead.
I wonder if I will ever catch you again also
casting your eyes on me - strangers
in this moment in time thrown
together, fragments of life standing still
while the train moves on to get to our stops.
If I had a surplus of optimism, I would ask myself
Is something on your mind, that you could throw
your gaze on me with such disquieting intensity?
But optimism is a kind of wine - it trumps sense,
makes one imagine a wish-granting gem as real.
The train stops - in the rush of people getting off
we lose sight of each other - but maybe
when our worlds collided in an infinitesimal flash
of time, we joined the knights of old seeking the grail,
the hunt as enticing as tilting at windmills.
The grinding millstone
The chaff invested air
The lone miller bow's in prayer
Seemingly lost in the chaos
The code of honour
Looking through the opaque
The lone miller, is he sage
Or lost in the modern age
Tilting at windmills
Is he a quixotic man
Doubtful it was a plan
His prayer said
Now he mixes
Rye, wheat, corn
Out of this, bread is born
Body soul and redemption
Made of hand, blessed with spirit
The lone miller, is he sage
Or is he lost in the modern age
Tilting at windmills
The code of honour reclaimed
The nature of a man, set free
Tilting at windmills
He will always be
He set his classic in La Mancha
Don Quxiote and sidekick Panza
This duet made an awful fist
Ready material for a satorist-
Sancho the squire,Don the idealist
see more in the renown tale by Cervantes
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