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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
Italian restaurant; pasta and wine - red, like the eyes of a bat,
Screeching from a cave, dark as the eyes of a snowman,
Coal plucked from a bucket, the mop was deposed -
By the broom, new sovereign of all instruments
Resound with the trumpet on Everest’s peak
High as a clown doused with vodka,
Watery eyes drip deep to the void.
Abyss without meaning that threatens to consume all life -
In an Italian restaurant.
Makeup: lonely face and painted smile
Dark hole: crying into nothing
Hell exists after all. It claws towards me,
Dragging me down and holding me tight.
Then I am lifted, eyes flashing.
It is my turn at the abyss….
Another stares down to me as I reach up with spindly hands.
Seaweed turtle abyss
Smoke, Poodles! Mystic Weed.
Touching on my friends tweed.
Baloomp he goes as his red nose falls off.
Falling to the ground forever like a knife at my throat.
Help me the glassy shine remains, slicing through the endless vacuum of time.
Below may be aliens, enemies, frenemies, or even God? But all I know is the megladown stops me from reaching thee in the black hole below and above- an abyss of loss an abyss of soul an abyss of time has made me its fool. Baloomp he says to me. Awakened I see nothing. Nothing. Nothing and me.
28 February 2020
Written for "Clown at the Abyss" contest, sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2020
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
I wonder often what you think, or if you think at all,
of the time we shared together as the summer turned to fall.
I dream of your adventures, while I watch the passing day,
in a room of empty chairs, in a tower far away.
I wonder often what you know, of love that I cannot.
What lessons can you claim that wordless must be taught?
And even now I fantasize of games you surely play,
in a room of empty chairs, in a tower far away.
I wonder often what you felt, or did your heart not speak?
The power 'pon your lips made me strong and made me weak.
And even could I run to you, I think that I would stay,
in a room of empty chairs, in a tower far away.
The pain and loss are fading, my heart's more red than gray,
and soon your voice will echo, in memories far away.
Written in Sarkey's Energy Center for "Let It Be" contest, sponsored by Catie Lindsey
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2017
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
Try to sustain yourself on truth if you can,
but your noble aim will quickly come to naught.
Life is bitter, and so too are the actions you must take,
and they require skills that can't be taught.
Only the honest try to blind others, for they keep,
within their breasts a spark of life as it must be.
And they will burn from the fire they protect,
knowing that others never wished to see.
But you cannot afford the truth as they,
so burrow down within your very heart,
rip up the thistle that is reality,
and you will find yourself right at the start.
Two paths to take, but only one will do.
Fool yourself, and pain cannot break through.
Written for "The Jester" contest, sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2017
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
A lonely beam of yellow-white light,
carving a curve in the ink of the night,
upon the snow-burdened branches of pine,
standing still guard to the lord of the line.
The icy wind howls in the silence serene,
tempting the light to avert and careen,
off of the timber and iron ahead,
into the water, the darkness, the dead.
And the blizzard, it beckons, with comfort sublime,
whispering rest to the lord of the line.
For burdens oft carried can even bend steel,
and wheels are not able to lay flat or kneel.
The engine is tempted, it lets out a peal,
a horn most forlorn to the wind most surreal.
Yet as the sound leaps through the valley of ice,
there redounds an echo—once, twice, and thrice!
And under the frost-covered rivets, inside,
the fire burns hotter, and strengthens the hide.
A purpose so strong is written within,
that heard from without, can bring life again.
As noble as Atlas, the train carries on,
knowing some where to go, and much where it's gone.
Accepting the fate of bitterest wine,
following on as the lord of the line.
But there is a crowd in the carriage behind,
they have many eyes, and still they are blind.
Driven by torment and anger and spite,
to tear out their hearts and sleep in the night.
Too proud to sound the horn of lonely man's fear,
their fires die within them, drowned by a tear,
a droplet of brine they would never expose,
so they swallow it whole, like blood in death-throes.
And they choke and they sputter, bottling steam,
they rush to the brink, as if in a dream.
A nightmare of pain in a cold hinterland.
And they cast off their life by no one's command.
In fear of the trials, they surrender their hope.
They laugh at life's line and they sever the rope.
A road through the darkness might lead on to shine.
Do you dare to take it, O Lord of the Line?
I look back fondly on this poem. Though I have grown in my ability to deviate from very structured poetry, I see my natural tendencies toward order when I look at this piece. I think PS drives me to explore new themes, structures, and ideas that will expand my abilities as a poet, and offer insight into my life outside of poetry.
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
So soft, the light of candles, dancing on the darkened walls.
I pace, and my step echoes, throughout these ancient halls.
Dust has grown so fine and thick that I walk in a haze.
What would my sight do anyway, within this lonely maze?
I can’t escape the edifice, for in a weakened state,
its architect neglected to provide it with a gate.
Such fanciful design—soaring stairs and chandeliers!
Made by one who chased his dreams and flew above his fears.
Now I stride most every night, within this lonely place,
thinking of his foolishness, the weight of his disgrace.
His motive was to win her, and he built without his eyes,
thinking she was with him; imagine his surprise.
I’m locked within this wondrous trap that should have set me free.
A prisoner by my own hand—the architect was me!
29 April 2016
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
I stole the surges of the ocean and the glory of the wave,
the roiling seas as recompense for what you never gave.
And I thought that I might see you at the dock or by the bay,
and I thought that you might love me, but my words washed you away.
17 June 2016
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
It was conceived in quiet hope,
within the morning’s light.
But it died, as with the sunset,
and this rose in the night.
It was meant a chide to winter,
for stealing her away,
a curse to all the elements,
but that was child’s play.
For it is not the dark or cold,
that keeps her heart from me.
It never was poor nature’s fault,
though it took me long to see.
She wasn’t taken from me.
She chose to leave me here.
She wasn’t forced against her will,
to sprinkle me with fear.
But I am not afraid now.
My mind is clear at last.
I guess I’ve crossed that bridge, now.
Farewell, my ghostly past.
And I bid adieu to that sad dream,
where winter kept her free,
to inspire with love’s specter,
the poem that will never be.
23 March 2016
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
In blood-washed canyonlands a stallion stands,
soft eyes trained on a fire-hearted mare.
Watching her nervously circle the sands,
prancing forward and back; she weighs out his dare.
He's seen her run, heard her cry out with joy.
She wears her bright soul like her shadow mane.
An arrow of light free from ev'ry ploy -
Fate decreed he'd try if he would stay sane.
What does she think of his strange, silent way?
A rose grown in secret, till it bloomed true.
A gift, mayhap unwanted, brought to day.
Red riddle of romance, asked with no clue.
The stallion stands silent, waiting to see -
will she come to him ... or will she run free?
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2023
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
He stood there like a phantom,
watching o’er a realm of mist.
I held my breath behind him,
as truth and tale kissed.
I didn’t dare reach out to him;
how could I lend a hand?
His thoughts were trained on mystery,
that swirled through the land.
I waited there behind him,
upon that tower of rock.
Until I climbed back to the base,
and broke the haunting lock.
I closed my fingers round the frame,
and moved to leave him there—
still standing in strict silence,
maintaining his soft stare.
And as I stepped out of the fog,
my words at last fell free.
I asked the man so lonely:
“What do you hope to see?”
7 May 2016
Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, Caspar David Friedrich
for “Within a Gilded Frame”, sponsored by Broken Wings
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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J. I. Thomas F. Poem
In the spring I was a hungry scholar,
caged ambition chained to life's cold machines,
striving to grow more vigorous, taller,
prepared to succeed by most any means.
On the cusp of summer, I make amends,
forgiving myself for lapses and loss,
pretending the actions my being spends,
are worth something more than transient dross.
I cannot fool you if I can't convince,
myself that fair destiny holds her hand,
aloof, that somehow this game will make sense,
that I can someday take pride in my stand.
O dazzling spring, I could be anything!
O summer, how humble the anthem I sing.
14 August 2016
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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