Home » Poems » Best » Mike Frampton » Best Mike Frampton Poems

Best Poems Written by Mike Frampton

Below are the all-time best Mike Frampton poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Between 2 Cars

My '90 Dodge Daytona sat
Broken down
On Horseblock Road.

We hitchhiked east
To Kelly’s induction,
Embarrassingly tardy.

The trucks were leaving
Ashes were spreading
And 16 people stood
Broken down
Outside the service.

Sean, Laura and I approached.
We made 19
Peers in formal wear
Feuding for space
Between 2 cars. Packed with living friends,
We found our way back home.
Sean’s flag stood through his window,
Guiding and mediating,

So nowadays I try to reason with atheists.
I’ll never forget returning to my Dodge.
It started and drove without a flaw,
And I felt like I had aced a test.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

An Honorable Response To a Successful Martyr

I am coming with you.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Perseverance

You've gone blind,
Staring at the sun.

Take my hand
And let me guide you home.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Somewhere In America

Somewhere in New York,
A piece of paper floats
Several stories above the ground.

Somewhere in Virginia,
The devil licks a lime
And fire erupts.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania,
There is a swan song
Where angels are born.

Somewhere uncharted,
A stenographer is busy
Watching the eyes of the free world
Closely.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

O' Laundry Day

O' laundry day, I cannot bare the thought
Of piling up these clothes any higher.
The devil on my shoulder says I ought
To take a match and set'm all on fire.
My knuckles, bitter with blue detergent,
Scrape against the corner of the machine
And although the pain is not urgent,
It makes me want to throw my head back and scream.
The sweat on my wrist takes the sweat off my brow
Every time I enter the basement.
The dryer's not done - oh wait - Joy! It is now,
So on with the folding and placement.
The day is spent - my clothes are finely done.
I'm ready to go out and have some fun!

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Unbridled

A true artist gives everything
Multiple meanings,
So who is to say we live in the gutter?
True beauty
Stands unbridled,
And if you could freeze a heart
In place
With a smile,
Then nothing else matters.
 
Maybe it's your eyes,
The way they can draw attention
Like a ray of light
Leading toward a holy land,
Or maybe it's your hand
With its touch that lulls the restless
To the calm of a busy night.
 
Maybe it's your lips,
The way your words break the spell
Of a common imagination,
 
But somehow, I know
A sun shower may be as beautiful
As a torrential thunderstorm,
The beach view of an ocean
May be as beautiful as sin,
But God is always daring us
To look beyond the images
And beauty transcends the beholder.
 
I bet you would look good in black leather,
The kind that holds tight to skin
As if it were painted on
By the stroke of a brilliant artist
Clinging, like a dreamer,
To the side of a vision.
 
I bet you would look good in a summer dress,
One with a trim that keeps the hearts of men
Pumping wildly and wishing.
 
I bet you would look good
Under a bit of rope
And a side of whipped cream,
A sight that would only be comparable
To its taste.
 
I bet you would look good
In anything,
Especially nothing at all,
 
And should I be wrong
That your eyes could swallow me whole,
That your touch could bind my skin
Yet retract so easily
As I stand at the edge of my tongue
And I am teetering
As if I were on a diving board,
Looking over the sparkling water
And feeling as if I could drink you,
As if I could swim and give my sweat
To your bidding,
Then nature will run its course
And no one will ever know wiser.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Ode To Mastic

I walk down Mastic Road
And look into the open yards
Where grass grows
Taller than houses.
Flowers hang down
From branches of decrepit trees,
Singing off key praises
To the grimy streets
Where children pass
In sync
With heroin junkies.

Time can be devastating,
And ugly things have a way
Of getting uglier.

Boarded windows
Outnumber houses.
Down at the end
Of Cranberry Drive,
The low tide stinks
Of high manure
And the beady eyes
Of violent crack heads
Scare away the sane.

The annual town fair
Has given up on St. Jude's church.
There are no Indians
At the Indian Reservation.
Teenagers walk through old trails
And graveyards
With 40oz. beers.
They stumble and laugh
As if William Floyd's estate
Were nothing but weary shadows
Waiting to be violated.

What has happened to this town?
How long will it stand
Corruption,
Disorder,
And guilty association?

Where there are weaknesses,
There are vulnerabilities,
Open to suggestion,
Open to attack,
And we are failing.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Driving In the Rain

My car is really a boat.
I've tightened down the main mast,
And I'm swabbing the deck,
Staring at the plank,
Contemplating who to push.

In dreams, boats symbolize the body
As water does for life.
If my body carries a soul
And my boat skims across the water,
Shoving puddles aside and soaking
Nearby walkers,
I MUST LAUGH
Or I will falter and sink
Into the muck
Like those who have not earned their right
To drive.

Please
Do not bury me among the pompous
Ocean of faces,
Just because I laugh
At everything.

I remember walking among the sprayed
Sidewalks of Mastic Beach,
Laughing at myself
As no one was there
To laugh at me,

And since I know
How to laugh at myself,
I think I have earned the right
To laugh at you!

And if God can have a dark sense
Of humor,
Then so can I.

: )

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Blue Ascendance

In the teasing bouts of an early spring,
One must have patience to watch a flower bloom
From the municipal bud to the ripe decor
From which pursed pedals seek to open.
The contents of sweet pollen rise,
Sway, circle and drift like an aging spirit.

Watch closely; you may find a spirit
Splashing the waters from where life springs
Lively enough to make the ocean rise
Above old towns where civilizations bloomed.
Let your shields down; keep your hearts and minds open,
Permeating love with an earthly decoration.

Strive to laugh and decorate
The petty who set fire to spirits
With the same buoyancy that keeps our eyes open,
Veering from traps that devils spring.
Search beyond the vile bloom,
Taking pride in ashes that fall and rise.

I will soon see myself rise
High enough to cast my decorations
Far enough to make the deserts bloom.
I'll paint the coast blue to match my spirit
As winds grow warm with spring.
Hearts will sing and channels will be open.

Likewise, the pores of the Earth shall one day open.
As that molten lava rises,
Ancient fireballs shall spring,
Coating the ground with horrid decoration,
But we shall lie dormant as spirits
Awaiting new life's bloom.

Winds will cool and aid that bloom,
And, beautifully, we will open,
For every spirit
Rises
And, decoratively,
Springs,

For everything that blooms, rises,
And every open heart is decorated,
And every loving spirit eventually springs.

Details | Mike Frampton Poem

Ode To Sharon Olds

Dear Sharon, I see no end 
To the rant of an educated mind
Once the pen is moving. I've seen A students
Butcher my writing. I remember the Fall
Of 2009, the poetry workshop at Stony Brook University,
The hipsters and emotional braggers
Eying my work and telling me what it was about
While the smirk on my face concealed
The howls of piteous laughter.

I walked the solemn paths
Of that heavily decorated school
Where trees had been uprooted
And replaced by foster bushes,
Convinced that my English professors
Do not know how to read, but only how
To dissect.

However, I also remember the A on my report.
It was the proudest one I'd ever had,
And I thought of the first day of class
When we were asked to choose a poet
To fall in love with.

I thought of the summer of 2006
When I walked into a little book store in Hampton Bays,
Pointing my freckle tipped nose at the poetry section,
Looking for something new
To look up to or somebody else
To look into.
I picked through the leaves of Blood, Tin and Straw
By the shelf, at the register and on the way to my car.
I read it to friends and perfect strangers
As a devout fan and penniless salesperson.

I did not take notes or scribble on the pages.
I did not create bull- in the hopes to expound
Some undiscovered truth
Between the style and context.
I did not uncover the root of your sorrows and joy,
For you had already done the task
So perfectly.

Mrs. Olds, you and I find solace
In a dying art. I see you as a friend
As I've seen you as
A lover, a mother, and a mentor
Through the gift of a vivid imagination
Where I've been given the chance
To love and applaud your work
In the comfort of my room,
Under the flickering light
Where the renditions of your heart
Lure me to sleep
As a silent lullaby.

It is an artist like you who keeps me writing.
It is knowing the chances,
That if my words can reach a soul
Like yours have reached mine,
Then there is still purpose in contemporary poetry
In my home, my heart, and my spirit
Outside of the classroom.