What is My Calling

What is my calling

To speak for those that are mute

Injecting logic

In this illogical world

Fighting the way I know how

With pen and paper

The written is the sword

I wield with honor

Far mightier than the tongue

Brandished til the day I die

.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

Advertisements

New Release: A Girl Named Cord By Briana Vedsted – July 31st

A Girl Named Cord by Briana Vedsted will be published on Amazon.com July 31st, 2013 as both a paperback and an eBook.

CORD-Flat
Book description: Cord had to work hard to earn her living as a cow puncher, and she was getting along just fine until a wealthy rancher moves into the county and threatens the lives of her and her friends. Cord rises up to meet every challenge, but the death of friends, both old and new, plague her at every turn. And just when everything seems like it is going to go back to being peacefully normal, a secret comes to light, putting Cord and her future family in danger. Will Cord let go of her sorrow filled past and revengeful wishes long enough to save her loved ones and pull her life back out of the bottomless pit it seems to be stuck in?
But let me tell you this: peace in the heart is much more comforting than blood in the sand.
Cover art by: Dirk Porsche at http://shiggyenterprises.wordpress.com/

Find out more about Briana on her blog, http://whenibecameanauthor.wordpress.com/

And check out Briana’s other books here:
and

Stuck

Stuck in a rut, a ditch,

Then again, maybe a canyon.

I yell and my words return

Echo after echo, a ricochet.

Each time I try to find my voice,

It rebounds a fainter rendering of itself.

Reminiscent of a story,

One told ad nauseam until it is no longer heard.

Story after story,

Poem after poem,

Groundhog day.

Where does the voice hide?

How does it break out of it’s own mediocrity?

It calls in hushed tones,

Knocks at the threshold waiting to be let in,

Though somehow I’m too late to answer.

So I wait, peering through the peephole,

For the sound of my voice,

To knock on the door again,

This time I’m ready.

~

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

A Good Friend

By D. R. DiFrancesco

 ~~~~~~~~

What passes for art, for art’s sake

Be it brush or pen or pottery, the medium, no difference does it make

Neither beauty nor disgust for the creation dissuade

From the quest to enrich, enlighten and persuade

Its been said that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder

This truth I envelop even more as I’ve grown older

What is crude or refined who’s to say what’s in taste

Rash judgements have been made at first glance and in haste

Powerful words and the mastery of the artists broad stroke

Portend to convey what the mind’s eye can invoke

Whether abstract or classical, our views may be divergent

Feelings resurrected and emotions rise most urgent

Thought provocation is the design of the muse

Masterfully manipulating all the senses that we use

To see and to hear things in a different light

Molded in a way that we hadn’t thought right

For better or for worse this is the artists intent

To affect you deep down though its this you strive to prevent

Whether its the beauty of a flower or sensations of unbridled love

What we hope to instill are the images and feelings gifted from above

The Touch of Poetry

I’m not a poet,

Whitman, Poe, Frost, Angelou,

Poet masters are these.

I, I am simply aspiring to their greatness,

Trying to find my way,

Trying to find the words to express my thoughts,

Trying to share what thrives inside of me.

Hoping that you find some  beauty in the words.

At times, thoughts evade me,

Words seem hard to form as if babbling,

Staring blankly at the page,

Suffering the pangs of the wall that hits me.

Knowing it won’t linger, helps me survive,

Just sitting with paper and pen comforts me,

Like an old friend, I clutch it close to my heart.

But it’s not for me to keep, but to share,

When words come,

Flowing, poetic, symbiotic,

Part of me, like my memories, rushes forth,

Screaming to be let out, shared with the world.

Happiest when I create,

Joyful in the company of prose,

Complete in the illusion that I’m artistic,

Whether real or imagined I don’t know.

Does it matter, I think not,

I will write,

I will let it take me down whatever road it chooses,

I will give my soul to whomever cares to take  it.

This I do out of respect for the art,

Even as an amateur,

I honor Whitman, Poe, Frost, and Angelou,

Hoping to make even the smallest of marks on those I touch.