Somewhere In My Brain (Senryu)

Somewhere in my brain

A novel waits to be born

Playing hide and seek

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

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A Brothel Of Sorts (A Dirty Little Poem)

A brothel of sorts–

This cesspool of words

Each a whore waiting for its next trick.

Johns–

Sentences,

Paragraphs,

Stories,

Poems,

Cheap and dirty,

Looking for a little love and affection.

Through the two-way mirror

Voyeurs read the filthy act;

Drooling over each thrust of the pen,

Until the climax

When the page collapses

In its ink soaked ecstasy,

Ah…such a sweet release.

 

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

 

Elder Embrace

By D. R. DiFrancesco

~~~~~~

Black hair gone thin and gray

Creases like dry riverbeds map the landscape

Winding effortlessly south

Either due to age or gravity or both

Dark olive skin, soft tautness lost to the years

Tired eyes struggle to catch the light of day

Once clear as crystals now foggy and uncertain

Reminiscent of the mist that envelops San Diego Bay

Memories of youthful virility invoked smiles and stories

Tales etched with vivid language

Language and reference not correct in todays world

Friends and acquaintances identified by race, creed and color

Shocked and amazed erupting in uncomfortable laughter

A likely product of the prejudice thrown at your feet

First breath drawn at the turn of the last century

Born of a race not so easily accepted

Unkind names and slurs labeling an entire lineage

Times had changed leaving you behind

Floundering as if in seizure

Living in an era that was foreign

Still there was no shame, no offense or ill intention

No defense levied for your words and actions

None was needed, none was desired

Age and time granted societal clemency

Few were left who lived the history

Fewer still survive to remember

Relegation to the page is approaching with haste

Embrace them while the opportunity affords

Cherish the time shared and knowledge imparted

Passing it down to the generations that follow

To Dine Alone

Coffee black and strong,

Gripped between cigarette stained fingers,

Making small talk,

How ’bout the weather?

Did ya see the news?

Filler to pass the time.

Old men hunched over cold eggs and bacon,

Swilling bottomless cups of mud,

Chain smoking Lucky’s,

Melancholy in the swirling cloud of second-hand smoke.

Each one has a story,

Exaggerated tales of loves lost,

Fables of misfortune and triumph,

White lies cast as bait to a sympathetic crowd.

“Sweetie”, a patron’s cry,

Barking for a check, menu, or refill,

Significant in this sea of anonymity,

Otherwise silently ignored.

The revolving door,

Room for one more lonely transient,

One more cup of thick black coffee,

Held between nicotine stained fingers,

Another tall tale wrapped in white lies,

Told to another friend,

Scarcely more than a stranger,

Just another forlorn castaway,

Adrift on a sea of tribulation.