tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-310303372024-03-07T19:00:47.469-05:00Caught In The Streamnot poetry. not fiction. a life, and something in between.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.comBlogger2070125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-10753238383176095652022-03-27T11:43:00.003-04:002022-03-27T11:49:19.248-04:00broken shards<p>The broken shards,</p><p>irregular and clear, </p><p>twinkle the crisp, spring light. </p><p>And bright, it's near. It's dear, </p><p>on the dug earth </p><p>where a sidewalk's hug gave birth </p><p>to an hourglass. They laugh, </p><p>they watch </p><p>their neighbors, scrambling weeds, </p><p>the ungainly, tight buds, catch </p><p>at it, the light. And when </p><p>they reach up into it, </p><p>and to the air, from where sand, </p><p>a lifetime of ago's ,</p><p>might have spilled, their thoughts run </p><p>back to the shards, </p><p>and the reflected sun.</p>Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-5758836473345622902020-12-23T14:11:00.001-05:002020-12-23T14:11:15.838-05:00Untitled - Acrylic on paper<p> So, this is me getting to know the new brushes and paints I purchased recently...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTqANpTNtIcSsDZjlT1T8Xt4_310zuMH6MQaYPC5byEORaI6wzD8i86FUrFOG-wZnuip5vYF23_JdJ_2Szg0ZTPA6GaahgzN942xfemvUJEmgrDt5AAy9444QsWmP7YX25aIoB/s2048/acrylics-first-try.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTqANpTNtIcSsDZjlT1T8Xt4_310zuMH6MQaYPC5byEORaI6wzD8i86FUrFOG-wZnuip5vYF23_JdJ_2Szg0ZTPA6GaahgzN942xfemvUJEmgrDt5AAy9444QsWmP7YX25aIoB/s320/acrylics-first-try.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-42668573362277474502020-03-01T10:00:00.002-05:002022-03-27T11:46:26.821-04:00When the dog scratches at sunshineWhen the dog scratches at sunshine,<br />
what does she hope to find? Is she,<br />
could she be, after its brightness <br />
what it might, this lightness, what it could bring<br />
to mind, those thoughtful, or less, things forgot, <br />
gone far and thought lost. If she brought,<br />
would she bring them, or<br />
a piece of them back, not so much to savor, but <br />
maybe to reconsider: At what we'd been,<br />
if being was even then, more or less.<br />
And in all of this, had she<br />
missed it, should she miss, and see the way past,<br />
the sign it meant: the glint that pauses<br />
paws ready for, and before, causes that leap ahead.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-21055137221804913362018-02-27T21:41:00.001-05:002018-02-27T21:41:07.486-05:00AlchemyI've left off.<br />
I've leapt off,<br />
how?<br />
Dreaming me, myself once, now<br />
I dream me another,<br />
one other<br />
than myself. Not<br />
my voice, not<br />
my mien,<br />
not mine.<br />
Around me, not<br />
my friends or loved ones, but<br />
ones loved the same.<br />
And me again<br />
myself, as other. With now,<br />
this now,<br />
being time<br />
or times<br />
when the other is<br />
stranger; When an other is,<br />
how? Other than loved?<br />
There is danger in love, in<br />
loving<br />
the stranger I've become. In<br />
dream, I can<br />
love another, this other than<br />
me. My self, yes<br />
myself yet,<br />
because I am he, or<br />
her, or...<br />
I am loved . And I'm at a time, when?<br />
why, when<br />
I wake, and when I may not be<br />
me,<br />
myself, or another, yet not<br />
not. Not<br />
yet. Yet, no other, and yes<br />
for all<br />
I am, all<br />
again,<br />
as I began.<br />
<br />Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-8545062019350251302018-01-11T23:32:00.002-05:002018-01-11T23:32:26.054-05:00To possess itTo possess<br />
it, without an es-<br />
specially<br />
sly<br />
grin, poses <br />
a problem<br />
for them,<br />
normally dull brown,<br />
and sunk down<br />
by bulbous noses<br />
that sniff a tru-<br />
er face in the blue.<br />
And why<br />
not, reflecting, as they should, on the sky?Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-70092255292697286282017-05-13T09:32:00.001-04:002017-05-13T09:32:44.398-04:00Have you seen rain drops fall like snowHave you seen<br />
rain drops<br />
fall like snow,<br />
<br />
no weight<br />
to their skips,<br />
<br />
zigging and zagging<br />
on the lagging<br />
breezes?<br />
<br />
They ease me into this<br />
early day's lazy gray<br />
<br />
sadness,<br />
not yet moved<br />
by those early risen<br />
sirens.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-41370789793137972942017-02-23T00:51:00.001-05:002017-02-23T01:05:41.490-05:00Ill winds<p dir="ltr">The wind's ill <br>
but it blows well <br>
and good. To some <br>
one, no good being <br>
left a great sum when <br>
it wasn't willed. No, <br>
not by a wind, nor <br>
Time, nor the Easterly <br>
ways she hangs about, <br>
and cross, creases her <br>
face to say hi, <br>
then leave it, her <br>
with the wind.<br>
</p>
Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-60788306003609868332017-01-08T16:03:00.000-05:002017-01-08T16:03:12.076-05:00The wisp that was and wasn'tIt was<br />
lower, less round, less<br />
deathly pale, and more<br />
imperfect<br />
than the half-moon looming<br />
above it<br />
until it<br />
wasn't, blown<br />
into blue by<br />
an unseen breathFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-1293067789014615512016-05-10T09:17:00.000-04:002016-05-10T09:17:02.385-04:00inconsistent, seeInconsistent, see<br />
I am, just what I told you<br />
and not. Where it went,<br />
I don't know. Where did it go,<br />
the Sympathy? It's not mine,<br />
or not now.<br />
The weight is. The<br />
weight came<br />
fast. Faster than the wait<br />
left, or tried to. Not all<br />
at once. It hopped in<br />
and out like the sparrows<br />
who visit, interchangeably,<br />
inconsistently, wanting<br />
but not daring,<br />
then gone.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-53242675074389419632016-05-07T09:48:00.002-04:002016-05-07T09:48:44.586-04:00The play of histonesEvery one<br />
is some(d)<br />
one else's other(s),<br />
added to<br />
their bothers<br />
cares fears and druthers,<br />
another(s) but not other(s)<br />
truly, just a<br />
same(d) one<br />
different(ed) in the play<br />
of histones.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-12438376193335743282016-01-16T11:33:00.001-05:002016-01-16T11:33:33.845-05:00Higher mathYour math<br />
may pattern it, death, <br />
in threes. I count<br />
it, an error, in<br />
the account-<br />
ingFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-51396957282982208782015-11-05T22:28:00.001-05:002015-11-05T22:28:41.446-05:00Folk of the futureThese formidable folk of the future are<br />
fetched in by the round out of your ears,<br />
the tales you sound of forgotten games<br />
not the fact you came from a pastful sameFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-31663210504094255682015-10-25T17:09:00.000-04:002015-10-25T17:19:19.645-04:00And there will be nopraise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips,<br />
or from what I use as lips, the tips<br />
of fingers I've let linger without expertise<br />
on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease <br />
what I can, or they may, from a simple rock.<br />
I found it on the spoiled ground I walk,<br />
alongside hop-scotch squares chalked<br />
to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare<br />
concrete. Its smooth brown whisper<br />
hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what<br />
formed it: not what gravity of years; not<br />
the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow<br />
or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know<br />
any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French<br />
academic I read who studied a people at length,<br />
and their region others had named. He claimed<br />
to know what makes, or made, them different. The same<br />
I could say for a taco chain and its bravado<br />
at being expert in making flavorless burritos.<br />
I'll boast instead of the plastic bear. <br />
It's clearly grown better at holding air<br />
than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what<br />
matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-55712579379155509712015-05-24T09:08:00.001-04:002015-05-24T09:08:37.227-04:00Trees make a bad choirThe woman, out-of-seasonally in<br />
her winter's attire, fire-red<br />
jacket and woolen cap, snaps<br />
off rounds of sermons. Full-on<br />
leafy, on a late-spring's early<br />
morn, the parked trees stretch and stand<br />
stately in their disbelief.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-23100730173061767722015-05-16T22:23:00.002-04:002015-05-16T22:23:10.024-04:00ouroborosan<br />
ouroboros<br />
hour devouring<br />
its all. our's to flow<br />
and flower. to borrow <br />
more<br />
ouroboros hoursFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-79828845537071987542015-03-14T17:52:00.001-04:002015-03-14T17:52:44.047-04:00runoniwriteivewritmy<br />
runons<br />
thoseothersanother<br />
sadandhappypunctuates<br />
punctuated<br />
idoididFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-30497314299074745392015-01-06T02:13:00.001-05:002015-01-06T02:17:29.795-05:00Soon<p dir="ltr">What's the use of a fulla love <br>
moon if ya can't swoon a little <br>
at the too soon of it. I will.</p>
Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-45715624732385429392014-09-03T20:36:00.000-04:002014-09-03T20:36:28.405-04:00lavender and grayThe story of gray and of lavender<br />
is a product of their time together,<br />
of arcing heights, yellows arranged, the lines<br />
of ocean scold, and a bye-going sliver,<br />
and they tell it, this story and their time,<br />
to no one unwilling to hold its shineFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-75993189909520477172014-06-07T00:40:00.000-04:002014-06-07T00:40:36.294-04:00stillThe still air still carries<br />
a heavy light, wing beats<br />
heavier than the wait<br />
of tires, these tires waiting<br />
to resume their susurrous rushFrancis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-80097967667706154942014-05-25T10:28:00.000-04:002014-05-25T10:28:06.296-04:00who tendswho tends the dying sparrow(?)<br />
not the sky<br />
with the many<br />
not the sky<br />
so many to hold<br />
<br />
I held distance and it was(.)<br />
light not sad<br />
for the many<br />
not saddened<br />
so many dying<br />
<br />Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-59193367208667749532014-05-17T17:33:00.002-04:002019-06-19T22:48:43.346-04:00unbecomingIt's become unbecoming,<br />
this becoming<br />
becoming less.<br />
<br />
Into each life... no,<br />
into (and after) each rain,<br />
a little life.<br />
<br />
Must the flies come?<br />
They've come, falling<br />
back into stories no one<br />
<br />
needed to tell. The crawls of<br />
unwelcome spiders<br />
follow, and more<br />
<br />
unbecoming.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-4342494232949172262014-04-26T08:53:00.000-04:002014-04-26T08:53:07.842-04:00risenIt's the sun that's risen. O, it rises again<br />
and again. The you flares from it, again, and then <br />
it rolls away rock eyes and it reveals to them<br />
all that's alive in the face of non-living things.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-65033868200426476312014-04-13T10:45:00.000-04:002014-04-13T10:48:23.344-04:00medusaThis Medusa tree,<br />
its viper's nest of limbs,<br />
their tender green tongues<br />
slipping free, freezes me.<br />
<br />Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-88647705952747287562014-04-11T21:04:00.001-04:002014-04-11T21:04:36.203-04:00spaceNot only time's<br />
relative. There's space,<br />
and the zigzag paths<br />
over dried needles.<br />
I've found great distance<br />
in a single step;<br />
the plod that connects<br />
me to young flowers.<br />
Lightness'll come crossing<br />
mouthy oceans; tongues<br />
to teach me close. Mine's<br />
an old, restless soul.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31030337.post-46370578274760887252014-04-01T18:33:00.000-04:002014-04-01T18:43:26.985-04:00getWhat's the get in letting<br />
go, again? It's one when,<br />
a daffodil moment.<br />
That then, a yellow's warm's<br />
warmest, before it goes,<br />
spent. You hold it, the warmth<br />
warmer yet for getting,<br />
and let the yellow go<br />
to where so many went.Francis Scudellarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01008685302028451297noreply@blogger.com0