VERSEWRIGHTS
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives

Frank Watson


The Distant Bells

Night whimpers its last gasp
with the smoke that lingers
from solo chimneys
reflected in the moonlit sky.

Breath chokes on nighttime mist,
harbinger of impending rain,
a funeral procession,
the notes to a blues night.

My voice is damp;
I listen to the distant bells
beneath a roof that offers thin shelter

from the coming storm.

               Micropoetry

she drinks
the sweet acid of his words
until he corrodes her soul

when she slept
she visited him
across the night sky
to kiss his soul
in another world

she runs her hands
along the poppy field
as if in an opium haze
Picture



​Frank Watson's profile    

she did not want
to face the sky
but it came down
anyway

she plucks
a purple veronica
and dreams of life
on the other side
of the lake

Leda in Chains

The roots have grown in earth’s entwining pulse,
and all that’s left is sown in plundering pulse.

Words of squalor, birds aflutter,
consciousness slurred in time’s encircling pulse.

Absurd, this game of back-and-forth,
the silent shame of desolating pulse.

Girded by fear, she fled but could not
escape the spear of thrusting pulse.

Spurred to seize his feeble prey,
he drives to please his surging pulse.

Unstirred by sounds of Leda’s cries,
he drowns in rounds of violating pulse.

Unheard between the herbs and sky,
No one disturbs her stifling pulse.



​
Picture

Gravity is Light

I walk along the moon,
kicking the gray dust
of fallen souls

and in the distance
I hear the shadow
of laughter’s smile,

yet gravity is light.

Back home
the rain raps
shingles on my roof

and as life is short,
I speak with a wet voice
and watch the moon.

Moonless desolation in the ashes of lost salvation

The earth cracks in the desolation
of smoke that rises from the ashes
in search of lost salvation.

I drink bronze wine
and listen to the gnash
of a lone bird that sits on dried up vines.

My violin is broken--
the strings are twisted like nerves
that scream a word once spoken.

As walls close in on a moonless night,
I wonder how long my memory can serve
when the dead will still indict.

Comments?

***

​Thank you for visiting Tweetspeak VerseWrights.
© 2012-2018. VerseWrights. All rights reserved.:
Acrostic Poems
Ballad Poems
Catalog Poems
Epic Poetry
Fairy Tale Poems
Fishing Poems
Funny Poems
Ghazal Poems
Haiku Poems
Love Poems
Math, Science & Technology Poems
Ode Poems
Pantoum Poems
Question Poems
Rondeau Poems
Rose Poems
Sestina Poems
Shakespeare Poems
Ship, Sail & Boat Poems
Sonnet Poems
Tea Poems
Villanelle Poems
Work Poems

To translate this page:
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives