The Old Husk by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poet Bio"] A sticky subject this old husk,Once a shelter for the insect,Our meeting was so very brusque,Not so easy this mutual respect. I wonder does he want revenge,With cheeping sounds so strange?Smash him with rock from stonehedge?But, his...

Date-Night Walk Ballad by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poet Bio"] My date-night turned out empty,As rain came tumbling down,‘Twas a flash of lightning,‘Mid the thunder sound. The city road has ended,Into a trail of gravel,Its lights dim so slowly,Across the path I travel. Tall phone poles are...

Sheep and Wolves by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poet Bio"] Sheep give such a plaintive cry,‘Tho it’s part of their guise,Again, I respond with a sigh,No wolves here as stealthy spies. A shepherd must be discerning,Conscious, alert, always aware,Protective, paternal with senses burning,For this calling—a herder’s affair....

The Strings on Me by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poet Bio"] 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...

The Human Touch. Too Much? by Francis Conlon

[tabby title="Poet Bio"] 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...