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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
God allowed him to see through their eyes,
feel their cries,
understand their plight,
with his body, but with their sight,
the alley way shimmered,
the night stars glimmered,
and the man found himself standing in a dark alley,
the stench of decaying rats,
discovered by hungry cats,
raw sewage, old smoke,
could lead anyone to choke,
as the less savory smells
hit him like a blow,
gagging, as he sensed hell,
displaying its best in show,
he steadied himself against a dirty red brick wall,
hearing the hungry call,
as he tried to keep himself from the fall,
his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness,
he glided up the alley as a shadow,
meaningless, but there,
ignored, but here,
if his shadow haven’t been silhouetted on the wall against the light,
he would have been another soul lost in the night.
People passed the alley without so much of a glance,
life gave him no chance,
as he was just another vague outline in society,
just like the abandoned crates and garbage bins all around,
he was just like garbage tossed on the ground,
his silhouette gave no clue on who he was,
just a flickering light,
from time to time just plain out of sight,
God’s strong hands seized his shoulders to steady him,
made him look at the people he once ignored,
made him understand,
that once in a while, people may need a loving hand.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
The ground was strewn with fragrant,
freshly cut grass,
blue sky shined like glass,
cool breeze stirred the willow tree,
birds chirped beneath the window panes,
loveliness for everyone to see,
houses surrounded by flower beds,
charming landscapes, a rich day,
regal in every way,
eyes can’t seem to turn away,
something glorious
on this Trinity Sunday
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
It took time for the soldier to realize,
that no one was truly self-sufficient,
after the raids and the bombings, hunger materialized,
and life seemed insufficient,
the villagers took refuge in a form of weakness,
as they watched their government fail,
and their lives sail,
unable to ask for any kind of help or guidance,
because of their own blood trail,
left by strangers in their land,
as most of these bystanders
become prisoners to a foreign command,
these thoughts flashed through the soldiers head,
as he walked around the countless dead,
he fought so many wars and won,
and he knew when another war starts,
they’ll take his son,
he gazed at the sleeping form of an old woman,
wrapped in a filthy sheet,
as she rocked nervously on the side of the street,
and small children huddled together,
and it appeared they haven’t had a bite to eat,
they simply watched and waited,
and for the most part,
that’s what the soldier hated,
these sights tugged at his heart,
but he was just following the chains of command,
there were whispered exchanges,
but he knew God would somehow understand.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
The knife was deep,
blood continues to seep,
as he thought about how life
comes and goes,
when you die, only God knows,
death remained a difficult concept to grasp,
as he gasped and he gasped,
he regained a seated position,
as he waited for the transition,
from life to death,
as he felt his final breath,
he expected Angels and Demons,
one with bloodthirsty anticipation,
and the other with forgiveness without contemplation,
but there was none,
life was over just like that,
and there was no Kingdom Come...
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
Peering down from a window seat,
she closed her eyes and she sensed the heat,
the plane made its final approach,
and she didn’t mind flying coach,
the land meets the ocean on the east,
and it was emerald green,
that could be seen
from her window,
perfectly manicured hedges and lawns,
graceful coconut palms,
and backyards dotted with pools,
tennis courts and yard tools,
to an outsider it would seem,
that Palm Beach was like a dream,
glamourous in every way,
larger than life, so they say,
beautiful and mysterious like a good book,
worth every moment shared,
worth every look,
highway filled with fancy cars,
host to kings, tycoons and movie stars,
and now a little girl,
heading to a fantasy world.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
After he was shot,
the doctor told her he would die,
he let her cry,
deep, heaving moans,
heart-wrenching groans,
pain that carried fear
beyond the realm of sorrow,
her son was certain to die by tomorrow,
the doctor hated himself during times like these,
she lost it as she fell to her knees,
cold, clinical, professional,
all went out the door,
the mother cradled like an infant on the floor,
nothing else he could say,
it was such a dark day,
but he didn’t turn away,
he was struck deeply by her pain,
her terror, her strain,
he couldn’t be cold, clinical, professional,
because times like this leaves an emotional stain.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
A breathless voice hissed from just behind the child’s
left ear,
he glanced back
to see no one there,
his mind was filled with the thought of death,
his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath,
and as if he had been running,
his face in the mirror darkened suddenly,
his emotions would hide,
his eyes wide,
his mind flips,
then a silent vow seemed to emanate
from his tightening lips,
he feels his heart rate,
racing,
his emotions now pacing,
his sanity dissolving before his very eyes,
he then feels some inner cries,
the child stared,
unblinking at his reflection,
he feared,
then a ghost appeared,
with a flicker of poorly concealed distress
in her eyes,
“ Run!”
Then in a second, before it was done,
it had to be fate,
because it was simply too late,
reality displayed a fact,
and the home invasion had a rapid impact.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
I loved when she believed in make believe,
she was my baby girl,
grown up tonight,
and moved on like a flash of light,
she smiles over me,
and asks if I had eaten,
and if I’d lie, she’d see,
I watched her crawl, and fall,
daddy, she’d call,
she would then walk,
and talk,
laughed when she would scrape her knee,
oh God I miss when she believed in make believe,
now there is a tear in my eye,
and I’d try not to cry,
she would make sure I’d feel good,
and she always understood
everything I’d teach,
she’d play with her dolls and all her toys,
she was my life’s joy,
I miss those days,
while she was growing up,
I’d show her the ways,
now as I lay in bed,
she wipes my forehead,
she would always be here,
always near,
just as I was for her,
I could sense her fear,
but she would make me happy during my last breath,
and her face was the last image I would see,
when approaching death.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
The birds were feasting
on mutilated remains,
maggots oozed,
from the ruptured veins,
as bodies piled high
of casualties with no names,
ripped flesh,
rancid smell,
guts mesh,
and visions right from hell,
the markings of fear,
written everywhere,
and songs about bombs
bursting in air,
as death hears,
all the war cheers.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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Frank F. Atanacio Poem
Through the night skies,
they could hear the echos and cries,
the vampire hunter exchanged greetings with his Lord,
who was polite but stiff in his replies,
he didn’t envy his Lord,
his life less-human, and more vampire,
the vampire hunter was a tomb raider,
and his Lord was a vampire traitor,
as he fights against his own race,
he’s a vampire’s disgrace,
the hunter felt a twinge of sympathy,
he could see the emptiness in his Lord’s eyes,
he has no more vampire ties,
a traitor to his kind, hiding behind,
the darkness of lies.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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