The Strings on Me by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poem"] I am controlled by gossamer strings,Puzzling questions make the call,Odd inquiries are part of my dance,At the conclusion, my soul may fall. But I hear talk like a distant rhythm,Some old answers we kick about,Destiny’s goal seems freely...

The Human Touch. Too Much? by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poem"] Is the human touch the Anthropocene age?Human progress (supposedly) on the march,Passing on to the new stage,A sift of view, with lots of starch. So much of Earth has man’s scar,Intense in times of revolution,Industry has carried us...

A Moment for Me by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poem"] Rest, indeed, a moment for me,Silence falls upon the rush,As if I meditate beneath the Bo tree,Nature encourages such a hush. The old sense, the olfactory, the smell,The most primitive in the brain,Recalling ancestors’ stories to tell,The denouement,...

Fragile Beauty by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poem"] The distance ‘tween was so fragile,Shimmering silver shown its beauty,Closing the space a trick so agile,That calls aesthetic to a specific duty. I called for years—a gentle bluff,Considereing a butterfly in my hand,Who found hours to be enough,For...

One day in Johannesburg by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poem"] Johannesburg city of gold,With rich promise of new life,Value given to tales told,That surpass views of ancient strife. Rounding the continent at the south,Of massive land Africa,Where freedom emerges from the mouth,That no person is an anathema. So...