Fogotten glimpses
bubble up from decay's dream
airy traps catching
roll-back words in filmy shells
lines warped by a fish-eye lens
Friday, October 09, 2009
Thursday, October 08, 2009
East of the Sun
I often try to sing of penciled landscapes
where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
East of the sun,
And west of the moon,
We'll build a dream house
Of love, dear;
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
Near to the sun in the day,
Near to the moon at night;
We'll live in a lovely way dear,
Living on love and pale moonlight.
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
Just you and I, forever and a day;
Love will not die, we'll keep it that way.
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
Up among the stars we'll find
A harmony of life, too lovely, too.
East of the sun and west of the moon, dear,
East of the sun and west of the moon.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #95: The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet Matthew Hittinger at Read Write Poem. Of the suggested mash-up techniques, I chose to mix a poem I was working on with the lyrics from a song.
The poem takes as its inspiration an actual dream sequence I had, which was a bit of a mash-up in itself. There was some very sudden scene-shifting, and it included a piped-in recording of "East of the Sun" as sung by Billie Holiday (and those are the lyrics interjected here). I tried my best to make the dreamy bits a lot more coherent, while preserving the metaphorical quality of the experience.
where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
East of the sun,
And west of the moon,
We'll build a dream house
Of love, dear;
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
Near to the sun in the day,
Near to the moon at night;
We'll live in a lovely way dear,
Living on love and pale moonlight.
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
Just you and I, forever and a day;
Love will not die, we'll keep it that way.
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
Up among the stars we'll find
A harmony of life, too lovely, too.
East of the sun and west of the moon, dear,
East of the sun and west of the moon.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #95: The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet Matthew Hittinger at Read Write Poem. Of the suggested mash-up techniques, I chose to mix a poem I was working on with the lyrics from a song.
The poem takes as its inspiration an actual dream sequence I had, which was a bit of a mash-up in itself. There was some very sudden scene-shifting, and it included a piped-in recording of "East of the Sun" as sung by Billie Holiday (and those are the lyrics interjected here). I tried my best to make the dreamy bits a lot more coherent, while preserving the metaphorical quality of the experience.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
His close-covered eyes
His close-covered eyes
dodge appointed jabs and thrusts
dawn's glad-jousting sun
dodge appointed jabs and thrusts
dawn's glad-jousting sun
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Tension curls
Tension curls up on his couch
a triggered comma, waiting
to uncoil with the phone's next
blasted ringing out
a triggered comma, waiting
to uncoil with the phone's next
blasted ringing out
Monday, October 05, 2009
Late summer wind
Late summer wind
whispers of coming decay
its warm breath on blushed cheeks
tickling out thoughts
of a last sun-splashed fling
whispers of coming decay
its warm breath on blushed cheeks
tickling out thoughts
of a last sun-splashed fling
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Saturday, October 03, 2009
I can't help...
"I can't help but feel"
is a phrase
I can't help but torture,
prying out
that rooted "but"
Or gently stabbing
a daggered comma
in between
its yawning gap
Still, the words
always leave me
feeling helpless
— Francis Scudellari
is a phrase
I can't help but torture,
prying out
that rooted "but"
Or gently stabbing
a daggered comma
in between
its yawning gap
Still, the words
always leave me
feeling helpless
— Francis Scudellari
Leaf transformed to fire
Leaf transformed to fire
mimes our slow-burning journey
then falls, exhausted
mimes our slow-burning journey
then falls, exhausted
Friday, October 02, 2009
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Per-happy Spins
His present stands up —a back-turned red,
round-blade shoulders held
high — ribbon proud,
but ever so prone
to be toppled,
heels-over-head twirled
by counting past.
Such flippancy
can't unfix the stare
of his future,
posed cottony white.
Two o'clock looms
less distinct, not less
vulnerable
to per-happy spins.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #94 at Read Write Poem. This week's challenge was to take inspiration from Thomas Hawk's photograph "My Angel and My Devil" (above).
My sigh lifts up
My sigh lifts up
to join with clouds, touching
to bring down, soft rain
to re-nourish, this soil
to join with clouds, touching
to bring down, soft rain
to re-nourish, this soil
From dust to dust
"From dust to dust" we go,
they say, but I
prefer to dream
a trip "from soil to cloud"
they say, but I
prefer to dream
a trip "from soil to cloud"
Monday, September 28, 2009
A quick note: Bye, Bye Entrecard
If you aren't familiar with what Entrecard is, you can stop reading beyond this sentence. If you are, then please continue.
For those of you who visit this blog solely to "drop" your cards, I have some bad news. In the next couple days I'll be removing the widget. Most of you probably won't even read this post, so it won't matter. I added the widget as a way to build traffic to this site, but I always had mixed feelings about that situation.
I've met some very interesting and worthwhile bloggers through the service, but it's gotten to the point now that most of the traffic I receive from it is "artificial" and therefore meaningless to me. No matter how much it inflates my numbers, there's no point in attracting visitors who neither care about nor read what I actually post.
If you are one of those who visit in appreciation of the actual content, I thank you. I've tried to add as many of you as I can to my Google reader, and I'll keep tabs on you through it.
There's also Twitter, which is a much more useful tool to building traffic, in my opinion. If you have an account there, please let me know and I'll gladly follow you.
For those of you who visit this blog solely to "drop" your cards, I have some bad news. In the next couple days I'll be removing the widget. Most of you probably won't even read this post, so it won't matter. I added the widget as a way to build traffic to this site, but I always had mixed feelings about that situation.
I've met some very interesting and worthwhile bloggers through the service, but it's gotten to the point now that most of the traffic I receive from it is "artificial" and therefore meaningless to me. No matter how much it inflates my numbers, there's no point in attracting visitors who neither care about nor read what I actually post.
If you are one of those who visit in appreciation of the actual content, I thank you. I've tried to add as many of you as I can to my Google reader, and I'll keep tabs on you through it.
There's also Twitter, which is a much more useful tool to building traffic, in my opinion. If you have an account there, please let me know and I'll gladly follow you.
Obsessed with endings
Obsessed with endings
he flips to final pages
savors the summing
then flops back where it started
hoping words and deeds connect
he flips to final pages
savors the summing
then flops back where it started
hoping words and deeds connect
Quarter moon's sad gaze
Quarter moon's sad gaze
tilting blue toward the sea,
a too-distant love
whose foamy caps leap, aching
to console her waxing loss
tilting blue toward the sea,
a too-distant love
whose foamy caps leap, aching
to console her waxing loss
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Dyslexic Dosido
These letters dance, spun too fast,
hopping spaces, changing places,
coming apart, re-assembling
in dyslexic dosido.
Their glee-filled, false steps kick aside
punctuation's too-stern stops,
undoing its stressful beats,
with a quick slip, dip and elide.
They make meaning a mean thing,
dressed loose in flimsy flowered shift,
and force my eyes to linger long,
caressing its rounded shape.
— Francis Scudellari
hopping spaces, changing places,
coming apart, re-assembling
in dyslexic dosido.
Their glee-filled, false steps kick aside
punctuation's too-stern stops,
undoing its stressful beats,
with a quick slip, dip and elide.
They make meaning a mean thing,
dressed loose in flimsy flowered shift,
and force my eyes to linger long,
caressing its rounded shape.
— Francis Scudellari
His scar's sleek, scored lines
His scar's sleek, scored lines
steel rails slicing back through fog
to knife point's menace
steel rails slicing back through fog
to knife point's menace
Men become monsters
"Men become monsters"
our fictions concocted to salve
open, weeping sores,
to distract the haunted, hollow eyes
lost in watching shallow gravesides
our fictions concocted to salve
open, weeping sores,
to distract the haunted, hollow eyes
lost in watching shallow gravesides
Friday, September 25, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Nether Realms
No thumb-printed squish or slippered swat
will I ill-fit as fate
to the various bugs so very engaged
in vertical creeps, horizontal crawls
and diagonal scurries
from baseboard to ceiling to jamb.
It's not that I'm a coward, cringing
at the prospect of spilled goop
(it does curdle my stomach)
or an insect mahatma
committed to non-violent displacements
(they always find their way back).
This keeping of six-legged fascination
has an even odder bent:
I tolerate roommates of small
and exo-skeletal sort (rent free, of course)
because their nightly prances
enhance my fancy with tallish tales.
On dozing lobe, barbed forelegs unfurl
notes scanned by faceted eyes,
their jagged beaks propping then dropping
sibilant syllables to be carried
on stereo cilia strumming
the tympani of my inner ear.
Their droned odes sing of minute kingdoms,
each clique in turn surveying:
spiral stairways sculpted from red clay;
ornate thrones wood-worked in stump and root;
dangling silk hammocks spun on airy heights,
a reward for stealing flowered kisses.
This entrancing Royal's ransom promised
to me in simple exchange:
I let them traffic through cabinets, walls
and drawers, all the time plotting
how to populate and expand a bit
further their swarming, nether realms.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #93: Make it a Whopper at Read Write Poem. The challenge was basically to build a tall tale out of a lie or lies.
will I ill-fit as fate
to the various bugs so very engaged
in vertical creeps, horizontal crawls
and diagonal scurries
from baseboard to ceiling to jamb.
It's not that I'm a coward, cringing
at the prospect of spilled goop
(it does curdle my stomach)
or an insect mahatma
committed to non-violent displacements
(they always find their way back).
This keeping of six-legged fascination
has an even odder bent:
I tolerate roommates of small
and exo-skeletal sort (rent free, of course)
because their nightly prances
enhance my fancy with tallish tales.
On dozing lobe, barbed forelegs unfurl
notes scanned by faceted eyes,
their jagged beaks propping then dropping
sibilant syllables to be carried
on stereo cilia strumming
the tympani of my inner ear.
Their droned odes sing of minute kingdoms,
each clique in turn surveying:
spiral stairways sculpted from red clay;
ornate thrones wood-worked in stump and root;
dangling silk hammocks spun on airy heights,
a reward for stealing flowered kisses.
This entrancing Royal's ransom promised
to me in simple exchange:
I let them traffic through cabinets, walls
and drawers, all the time plotting
how to populate and expand a bit
further their swarming, nether realms.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #93: Make it a Whopper at Read Write Poem. The challenge was basically to build a tall tale out of a lie or lies.
Sacrificial flesh
Sacrificial flesh,
fire-licked, spits its fatty drips,
riles moody embers
crackling out an acrid smoke
to entreat wayward idols
fire-licked, spits its fatty drips,
riles moody embers
crackling out an acrid smoke
to entreat wayward idols
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Mocking shadows tug
Mocking shadows tug
ragged cuffs of worn-out eyes
guide sidelong glances
to stitch tightly patterned stares
patching ghostly absences
ragged cuffs of worn-out eyes
guide sidelong glances
to stitch tightly patterned stares
patching ghostly absences
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
What would a frog want?
Ever-after wishing
for magical
transformations, and
one to follow
closely, by the book,
she rolls lace sleeves,
plunging icy hands
into pond's brown
murk, with a talent
for fetching out.
Finger-wrapped, fearing
pursed leather lips,
her slime-green captive
gives squirmy croak:
"What would a frog want
to do with you?"
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is a "fractured fairy tale" inspired by a spam email I received with the subject line of "What would a frog want with you?"
for magical
transformations, and
one to follow
closely, by the book,
she rolls lace sleeves,
plunging icy hands
into pond's brown
murk, with a talent
for fetching out.
Finger-wrapped, fearing
pursed leather lips,
her slime-green captive
gives squirmy croak:
"What would a frog want
to do with you?"
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is a "fractured fairy tale" inspired by a spam email I received with the subject line of "What would a frog want with you?"
Friday, September 18, 2009
Today demands
Today demands
I change
everything, but tomorrow
always sits, cross-
legged, patiently
waiting
I change
everything, but tomorrow
always sits, cross-
legged, patiently
waiting
Her closeted pain
Her closeted pain,
a ruby talisman
she pulls out for falling dusk
its thumbs rubbing facets, to wish
a gentler awakening
a ruby talisman
she pulls out for falling dusk
its thumbs rubbing facets, to wish
a gentler awakening
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Scofflaw Christ
A scofflaw Christ, he mounts the wrought
balcony to sermonize between bites of fruit.
His musty words cast out, over
an impoverished lot, its multitudes lost
among clumps of grass, weed and clover.
This day's gospel topic: the waiting-to-be
attitudes of a conformist flock he extols
from their meeker paths in vague hope
to inherit a less unkempt earth.
Black rail receiving the leaned weight
of narrow hips, this mock Jesus extends only
one arm, and with graceful arc tosses
a twice-bitten plum, to bounce and roll
where his disciples might some day stand.
Till that coming time, when craned necks await
his offerings to remedy sleeping hungers,
these peels, husks and wrappers of half-eaten
confections, his pittances, will lay in stead,
as he withdraws from reverie's limelight,
to a kitchen well-stocked with sweetness to impart.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #92: Word Gems at Read Write Poem. The 13 words from the challenge are italicized to ease their spotting.
balcony to sermonize between bites of fruit.
His musty words cast out, over
an impoverished lot, its multitudes lost
among clumps of grass, weed and clover.
This day's gospel topic: the waiting-to-be
attitudes of a conformist flock he extols
from their meeker paths in vague hope
to inherit a less unkempt earth.
Black rail receiving the leaned weight
of narrow hips, this mock Jesus extends only
one arm, and with graceful arc tosses
a twice-bitten plum, to bounce and roll
where his disciples might some day stand.
Till that coming time, when craned necks await
his offerings to remedy sleeping hungers,
these peels, husks and wrappers of half-eaten
confections, his pittances, will lay in stead,
as he withdraws from reverie's limelight,
to a kitchen well-stocked with sweetness to impart.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #92: Word Gems at Read Write Poem. The 13 words from the challenge are italicized to ease their spotting.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Undiscerning tongue
Undiscerning tongue
held and bitten too often,
lures the incisors
to pink meat for a hard chomp.
Its lopped-off tip flopping free
held and bitten too often,
lures the incisors
to pink meat for a hard chomp.
Its lopped-off tip flopping free
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Toady Haunt
The bathroom faucet drips hurried footsteps,
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
— Francis Scudellari
This is my second poem (finally) written in response to Read Write Prompt #91 at Read Write Poem.
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
— Francis Scudellari
This is my second poem (finally) written in response to Read Write Prompt #91 at Read Write Poem.
The trapped candle's blushing
The trapped candle's blushing
light escapes its cracked
crystal, tinting the gold
caps on his irregularly
stacked teeth an eerie red
light escapes its cracked
crystal, tinting the gold
caps on his irregularly
stacked teeth an eerie red
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Two Souls: Gathering
I finally was able to complete the next installment of my cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (a title I may eventually change).
IX. Gathering
By Francis Scudellari
Two legs find horizons
cracked-wide, the hours
of likened now made unlike
when, heavy cloaked
in thickets' hair-cloth prickling,
she-he slip out
into lusty gatherings
of clutched sticks fixed
with sharpened stones, prancing
down hooted trails
painted fresh by scents, singing
of sun-drenched tang,
slain muscle torn from bone
IX. Gathering
By Francis Scudellari
Two legs find horizons
cracked-wide, the hours
of likened now made unlike
when, heavy cloaked
in thickets' hair-cloth prickling,
she-he slip out
into lusty gatherings
of clutched sticks fixed
with sharpened stones, prancing
down hooted trails
painted fresh by scents, singing
of sun-drenched tang,
slain muscle torn from bone
Tiny explorers
Tiny explorers
equipped with twirled antennae,
hard shells, grippy legs
squeeze through crevices, scale walls,
reach for human peeks
equipped with twirled antennae,
hard shells, grippy legs
squeeze through crevices, scale walls,
reach for human peeks
Friday, September 11, 2009
Waxed black floss
Waxed black floss, sharp-edged
cuts crooked nose from curled lips:
a facial fraction
cuts crooked nose from curled lips:
a facial fraction
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Mere Kids
Mere kids, we probe the distant
sky, anxious to touch
glimmers of a wink, peaking
out from rain-dropped curtains,
their slow thinning, allowing
pale fingers to rip
glad gaps through which we tumble
as we plunge from sliding glass
doors smudged with our fingerprint
smiles. Mere kids, we skip
slippery slopes, trail run-off's
trickle down to bubbling beds,
careless steps raising sweet scents,
the decay of leaves
and years falling away thick
from a canopy's stout arms,
criss-crossed rays sneaking through, hatch
us to muddy ponds
breathing out black, buzzing clouds,
then drinking in an unseen
pursuer disguised in plops
and ripples. Mere kids,
we muck bent knees to spread small
hands chasing backward crayfish,
who scurry red-brown under
slime-licked rocks, too poor
cover against nimble eyes,
as armored backs with pinched claws
we snatch and drop into jars
sealed shut with clear minds,
plastic moments stretched to last
an over-fancied lifetime
— Francis Scudellari
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #91 at Read Write Poem. It was a bit of a challenge for me, and there's another draft poem from the exercise that I'll try to post soon.
sky, anxious to touch
glimmers of a wink, peaking
out from rain-dropped curtains,
their slow thinning, allowing
pale fingers to rip
glad gaps through which we tumble
as we plunge from sliding glass
doors smudged with our fingerprint
smiles. Mere kids, we skip
slippery slopes, trail run-off's
trickle down to bubbling beds,
careless steps raising sweet scents,
the decay of leaves
and years falling away thick
from a canopy's stout arms,
criss-crossed rays sneaking through, hatch
us to muddy ponds
breathing out black, buzzing clouds,
then drinking in an unseen
pursuer disguised in plops
and ripples. Mere kids,
we muck bent knees to spread small
hands chasing backward crayfish,
who scurry red-brown under
slime-licked rocks, too poor
cover against nimble eyes,
as armored backs with pinched claws
we snatch and drop into jars
sealed shut with clear minds,
plastic moments stretched to last
an over-fancied lifetime
— Francis Scudellari
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #91 at Read Write Poem. It was a bit of a challenge for me, and there's another draft poem from the exercise that I'll try to post soon.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Trash
Gun metal gray,
this pigeon grasps
at current strung black
across a brick-
bounded back alley
edgy eyes on
uneven piles—
disposable
artifacts of people
caught in-between—
it trills its plea,
a directionless
directive to throw
away smaller,
more edible, trash
—Francis Scudellari
this pigeon grasps
at current strung black
across a brick-
bounded back alley
edgy eyes on
uneven piles—
disposable
artifacts of people
caught in-between—
it trills its plea,
a directionless
directive to throw
away smaller,
more edible, trash
—Francis Scudellari
Still supple necks
Still supple necks strip
to beseech the reaper's blade
inclining to tempt
his crescent keenly purposed
to sever their spectre's stalks
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Rock spine's arched crumbling
Rock spine's arched crumbling
looms at warped, gnawed planks' end
thresholds to forgot
Friday, September 04, 2009
Steely beaked cranes
Steely beaked cranes swoop
to pluck shallow souls lost in
dreaming's swift current
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Prompted: My song to fire
This Is My Song To Fire
By Francis Scudellari
This is my song to fire
imagined gods, tipping the balance
of an eight-pointed star;
spirited tongues that orange-blue dance
lost stories of ancient's
mother whose land-distending belly
gave violent blood birth,
spitting forth choleric streams to crawl.
Molten fingers capped by
cruel mouths, gurgle cryptic paths down
humped and wooded back, till
reaching the lip of a plunging slope,
their fierce heads droop, roiling
limpid pools to release snake-coiled steam
and entreat ill-favors
from a jealous, flood-fathering moon.
This is my song to douse
fancied demons, speeding the tumble
of an eight pointed star;
frenzied frolics to blur waking myths.
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #90 at Read Write Poem. The challenge was to take inspiration from a photo of a street performer balancing a metal frame tipped with eight flames (click the prompt link above to see it).
By Francis Scudellari
This is my song to fire
imagined gods, tipping the balance
of an eight-pointed star;
spirited tongues that orange-blue dance
lost stories of ancient's
mother whose land-distending belly
gave violent blood birth,
spitting forth choleric streams to crawl.
Molten fingers capped by
cruel mouths, gurgle cryptic paths down
humped and wooded back, till
reaching the lip of a plunging slope,
their fierce heads droop, roiling
limpid pools to release snake-coiled steam
and entreat ill-favors
from a jealous, flood-fathering moon.
This is my song to douse
fancied demons, speeding the tumble
of an eight pointed star;
frenzied frolics to blur waking myths.
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #90 at Read Write Poem. The challenge was to take inspiration from a photo of a street performer balancing a metal frame tipped with eight flames (click the prompt link above to see it).
Hour-swept stage
Hour-swept stage, bare-faced
follows uncounted costumed
bows, taken before
a fixing flood's painted gaze
washes bound acts to pale light
Monday, August 31, 2009
Unborn
She's there, I'll find her, hasty
piecing together
this twilight's sparkling
caught in splintered hazel shards
I gather close, then spin to
cast kaleidoscope stencils
of stained eyes, dripping
twin-hearted hours, glass
tears slipping away, snapping,
spilling out timeless
grains push-pulled by moistened breaths
to dune round lank reeds
clutched in shallow sipping
the clouded puddles
of a leaky shore. That's where
I'll be, dipping abandoned
shells I'll put to ear
to listen for the whispered
tides baring see-saw fables:
her life, still unborn.
— Francis Scudellari
piecing together
this twilight's sparkling
caught in splintered hazel shards
I gather close, then spin to
cast kaleidoscope stencils
of stained eyes, dripping
twin-hearted hours, glass
tears slipping away, snapping,
spilling out timeless
grains push-pulled by moistened breaths
to dune round lank reeds
clutched in shallow sipping
the clouded puddles
of a leaky shore. That's where
I'll be, dipping abandoned
shells I'll put to ear
to listen for the whispered
tides baring see-saw fables:
her life, still unborn.
— Francis Scudellari
Sunday, August 30, 2009
In that voided space
In that voided space
where mingling, light and dust danced
then fled, long-ago
heavens slowed by age, collide
a dull thud, low-pitched echoes
where mingling, light and dust danced
then fled, long-ago
heavens slowed by age, collide
a dull thud, low-pitched echoes
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Low, milky vapors
Low, milky vapors
raised by the sun's softened tears
sprawl across paved stones
hissing wispy blue ballads
of their head-consuming tales
raised by the sun's softened tears
sprawl across paved stones
hissing wispy blue ballads
of their head-consuming tales
Friday, August 28, 2009
Twin hourglass tears drop
Twin hourglass tears drop,
snap to spill out timeless grains
wish-filled accounting
snap to spill out timeless grains
wish-filled accounting
Chasm's sculpted edge
Chasm's sculpted edge, poised
turquoise calm pooled below, tempts
foolish leaps, joy's falls
turquoise calm pooled below, tempts
foolish leaps, joy's falls
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Blind night offers
Blind night offers end-
less forms, spirits swirl till switched
light sets its boxed traps
less forms, spirits swirl till switched
light sets its boxed traps
Monday, August 24, 2009
We all go round in circles
By Francis Scudellari
"We all go round in circles,"
science has weighed in.
Its confusion-clear voice
lithely concluding:
Leave us to walk blindfolded
in a clueless traveling,
going far enough, we'll end
where we started.
That may not surprise,
all of us tied down so long
to this marbled mother-sphere's
endless spinning,
but if science recalibrated
to measure perhaps,
it would find our orbits
are elliptic
and, like the greater bodies,
our movements, a revolving;
pulled around by someone, or
something, we love
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #89 at Read Write Poem. The "challenge" is to take a news headline as inspiration. For mine, I used the story We all go round in circles by Emma Woollacott.
"We all go round in circles,"
science has weighed in.
Its confusion-clear voice
lithely concluding:
Leave us to walk blindfolded
in a clueless traveling,
going far enough, we'll end
where we started.
That may not surprise,
all of us tied down so long
to this marbled mother-sphere's
endless spinning,
but if science recalibrated
to measure perhaps,
it would find our orbits
are elliptic
and, like the greater bodies,
our movements, a revolving;
pulled around by someone, or
something, we love
This poem was written in response to Read Write Prompt #89 at Read Write Poem. The "challenge" is to take a news headline as inspiration. For mine, I used the story We all go round in circles by Emma Woollacott.
Knobbed twigs, puppet arms
Knobbed twigs, puppet arms
string-pulled to a snared center
tap out glassy rhythms
string-pulled to a snared center
tap out glassy rhythms
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Silence's blank weaves
Silence's blank weaves
haircloth coves, sanguine pricking
beads of when, why's drops
And an alternate take...
Silence - woven blank
rough-spun cloth draping, pricking
beads of when, why's drops
I prefer the first, others seem to like the second. Feel free to weigh in through comments...
haircloth coves, sanguine pricking
beads of when, why's drops
And an alternate take...
Silence - woven blank
rough-spun cloth draping, pricking
beads of when, why's drops
I prefer the first, others seem to like the second. Feel free to weigh in through comments...
Friday, August 21, 2009
Warm and Fuzzy
There are those moments
warm and fuzzy, when
walking my fawning pugs,
Albert pushes that flat,
wet nose to nuzzle
the muzzle of his house-mate
Lucy, as if to say:
"Hi, and bye the bye,
I'm always right here!"
After seven years, each
time he reaches for her,
I still smile and sigh.
— Francis Scudellari
warm and fuzzy, when
walking my fawning pugs,
Albert pushes that flat,
wet nose to nuzzle
the muzzle of his house-mate
Lucy, as if to say:
"Hi, and bye the bye,
I'm always right here!"
After seven years, each
time he reaches for her,
I still smile and sigh.
— Francis Scudellari
If I could steal it
If I could steal it
your sadness, I'd swallow it
whole and deep, keep it
where blind, trapped, never would it
twist its dark ways back to you
your sadness, I'd swallow it
whole and deep, keep it
where blind, trapped, never would it
twist its dark ways back to you
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sky splashed blood-orange
Sky splashed blood-orange
awe strikes the waking earth mute
webbed eyes still glued, shut
till one warbling voice sings out
a silent needing, broken
awe strikes the waking earth mute
webbed eyes still glued, shut
till one warbling voice sings out
a silent needing, broken
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
A kissed randomness
This is another poem born of a structured randomness. The words were mostly provided by the Twitter Magnets Web application, but I embellished, smoothed and stretched them out. I think of it as a variation on the idea of "found poetry." Here's the final result:
Wholesome clouded kiss
By Francis Scudellari
In a wholesome clouded kiss,
her puffed pink lips lock
to the hardened lines
of this wandering,
thunder-headed stranger
The heavy blanketing peace
of her color-blinded sadness
woolly pulls apart
to here's frayed-edges,
their bitter-quilted coupling
Wholesome clouded kiss
By Francis Scudellari
In a wholesome clouded kiss,
her puffed pink lips lock
to the hardened lines
of this wandering,
thunder-headed stranger
The heavy blanketing peace
of her color-blinded sadness
woolly pulls apart
to here's frayed-edges,
their bitter-quilted coupling
Pale moon's crescent glance
Pale moon's crescent glance
side-long, unfocused, pushes
my heart to the shore
side-long, unfocused, pushes
my heart to the shore
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Prompted: Coiled Rope
Coiled rope
By Francis Scudellari
With a swollen tongue,
years saturated in bile,
he rolls and flings frothy tales
tinged rancid yellow,
coating his tight lip's corners
already primed spittle white;
These sing-song rants he chants
in a cursing elocution
over salacious beats
that ride the tangled ribbons
of his long-ago committed
8-track mind, slow unreeling...
gifts to a sore gullet
caked-up with coagulate
black grease, moldy dust;
The spoon-fed, eager gulps
of plastic pablum soothing
tumbled down disturbances—
deep-belly laughs captured
in photographs he clips sun-bleached
to mouthy, drooped lines
stringing together a coarse film
painted electric by diodes
snapped off fragile circuits. Bored,
his motor idles outside
belching exhausted breezes
that strum stained curtains
in a melodic bustle
to hustle clutter on a hitch
and pull the coiled rope, homeward
This poem is written in response to the Read Write Poem Prompt #88, which suggested 14 words to build a verse around. It was a difficult challenge met. If you haven't yet checked out Read Write Poem, it's well worth a look:
By Francis Scudellari
With a swollen tongue,
years saturated in bile,
he rolls and flings frothy tales
tinged rancid yellow,
coating his tight lip's corners
already primed spittle white;
These sing-song rants he chants
in a cursing elocution
over salacious beats
that ride the tangled ribbons
of his long-ago committed
8-track mind, slow unreeling...
gifts to a sore gullet
caked-up with coagulate
black grease, moldy dust;
The spoon-fed, eager gulps
of plastic pablum soothing
tumbled down disturbances—
deep-belly laughs captured
in photographs he clips sun-bleached
to mouthy, drooped lines
stringing together a coarse film
painted electric by diodes
snapped off fragile circuits. Bored,
his motor idles outside
belching exhausted breezes
that strum stained curtains
in a melodic bustle
to hustle clutter on a hitch
and pull the coiled rope, homeward
This poem is written in response to the Read Write Poem Prompt #88, which suggested 14 words to build a verse around. It was a difficult challenge met. If you haven't yet checked out Read Write Poem, it's well worth a look:
Monday, August 17, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Tweetku, Twaiku, Tweeku... how about Tweetanka?
The Twitterverse hasn't yet settled on a name for Tweeted Haiku, but that won't stop me from posting the 17 syllable mini-poems. Nor will it keep me from tooting my own horn about a most surprising development. Check out my "ranking" in this article at Chicago Now's Breaking Tweets Chicago: Top Haiku Twitter accounts in Chicago. Many thanks to Craig Kanalley for the honor.
It inspired the following haiku:
It inspired the following haiku:
Slow-creeping, pink blushMeanwhile, here's my attempt at the 5-7-5-7-7 structure of a tanka, which I tweeted yesterday in response to the word prompt "weary":
false humility's dyed mask
smiles, overwhelming
Mid-summer sunlight's
wavy, white radiation
fans glass-print petals
pushes shut moon-weary lids
burns a crimson path inward
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Learning from Randomness
This is another poetic exercise born of my Twittering. Through a fellow poet's tweeted stream, I discovered a Web app called Twitter Magnets. It's the Internet's version of the poetry game that used refrigerator magnets to build poems from a random selection of words.
I tried to use as many of the words and punctuation offered as I could without going over the 120-character limit. This is what I came up with:
Needle
By Francis Scudellari
A soft yesterday's sharp reproach,
always present,
pricks my calloused heart
I growl out glass
caught between gritted teeth
and two-fisted embrace it
Pulling the knot tight,
I flick this needle's glint
a spiked drop, acceptance
I tried to use as many of the words and punctuation offered as I could without going over the 120-character limit. This is what I came up with:
soft yesterday of reproach, always presentI really liked some of the unusual word combinations it forced me to use. I liked them so much, in fact, I decided to build on the skeleton of that magnet exercise to create the following slightly longer poem.
picks cold heart
i growl glass,
two-fist embrace it.
flick needle?
Needle
By Francis Scudellari
A soft yesterday's sharp reproach,
always present,
pricks my calloused heart
I growl out glass
caught between gritted teeth
and two-fisted embrace it
Pulling the knot tight,
I flick this needle's glint
a spiked drop, acceptance
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tweetku?
Because Twitter imposes a 140 character limit, there are a lot of tweet-poets reviving the Japanese poetry forms of haiku, tanka and senryū. To see some good examples, just search on those tags at Twitter.
This new-fangled adaptation will probably rankle the literary purists, but they're the sort to always get rankled about something. I've tried my hand at writing a few of what I'll call tweetku — since I'm sure they don't rise to the level of haiku. They're a nice diversion. Back to longer form poetry soon.
Soft-breeze dawn voices
ripple curtains glowing rose
hint at worlds beyond
This ripe, round moment
dangles tantalizing, close
then shrivels, too soon
Ripe plum once bitten
sits wound-up on back-stairs rail
offering to birds?
Cajoling bird songs
backed by dissonant chorus
five fan blades abuzz
This new-fangled adaptation will probably rankle the literary purists, but they're the sort to always get rankled about something. I've tried my hand at writing a few of what I'll call tweetku — since I'm sure they don't rise to the level of haiku. They're a nice diversion. Back to longer form poetry soon.
Soft-breeze dawn voices
ripple curtains glowing rose
hint at worlds beyond
This ripe, round moment
dangles tantalizing, close
then shrivels, too soon
Ripe plum once bitten
sits wound-up on back-stairs rail
offering to birds?
Cajoling bird songs
backed by dissonant chorus
five fan blades abuzz
Monday, August 10, 2009
Both Sapped and Nourished
There's a prickly feeling tucked deep inside this verse, but I've camouflaged it well enough to confuse its prey.
Nectars
By Francis Scudellari
Sprinkled in her snowy cup
there's a powder-sweet wish
for this passing shade
who with shifting stripes, dappled shell,
and feather-creased skin
fractures the dawn
in a soft-buzzed calling
to sip at nectars
tendered, nestled deep
in conic blossoms...
Will he suckle to nourish,
and tasting such sweet water
abide the day?
Then with whimsied leaving
his barbed tail twitches and jumps
as he dashes away
in careless seeking
distant other's untapped blooms
and these supple leaves
once so pertly pricked,
grown thick in wing-beat light,
droop and trail
after the lilting dusk...
Till a stemming sap
recalls her blush
to the morning he visits again.
Nectars
By Francis Scudellari
Sprinkled in her snowy cup
there's a powder-sweet wish
for this passing shade
who with shifting stripes, dappled shell,
and feather-creased skin
fractures the dawn
in a soft-buzzed calling
to sip at nectars
tendered, nestled deep
in conic blossoms...
Will he suckle to nourish,
and tasting such sweet water
abide the day?
Then with whimsied leaving
his barbed tail twitches and jumps
as he dashes away
in careless seeking
distant other's untapped blooms
and these supple leaves
once so pertly pricked,
grown thick in wing-beat light,
droop and trail
after the lilting dusk...
Till a stemming sap
recalls her blush
to the morning he visits again.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Two Souls, Hunched Up
This is part eight of my mythic poem-cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives. You can check out the other seven parts by clicking here (note that they're listed in reverse order, most recent first).
VIII. Hunched
By Francis Scudellari
Willful drawn, down to clay
ruts choked with grass,
edged by berried brambles
whose thorny twists
bend to a lowering sky
as its grumble
stabs open wounds, gushing
muddy instants
to puddle, pool, swell, swallow
the black-humped plains,
and force he-she up, hunched
to scour trappings
of craggy, gouged rock skins
VIII. Hunched
By Francis Scudellari
Willful drawn, down to clay
ruts choked with grass,
edged by berried brambles
whose thorny twists
bend to a lowering sky
as its grumble
stabs open wounds, gushing
muddy instants
to puddle, pool, swell, swallow
the black-humped plains,
and force he-she up, hunched
to scour trappings
of craggy, gouged rock skins
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Magic potions
This poem is about tranformation, or the desire for it. It's a bit magical in tone, as it's informed by the Alchemist's concept of the Elixir of Life (with special thanks to fellow poet Jemfyr for the inspiration).
Elixir
By Francis Scudellari
This Elixir of light,
distilled from lime-green tears
of lunar moth
moved by the monthly turning
of his mistress'
full and silvery back,
drops dripped from ducts
to vial, to tongue
and is sealed with pursed lips
that push back the fluorescent
waves washing down
to stir a still larval heart...
stretching, yawning, a flame.
Dancing particles
of iridescent powder
carried on one thousand tiny wings
twirl back through my mouth
to enliven a sleep-thicketed forest
with the fluttered speaking
of her name
Elixir
By Francis Scudellari
This Elixir of light,
distilled from lime-green tears
of lunar moth
moved by the monthly turning
of his mistress'
full and silvery back,
drops dripped from ducts
to vial, to tongue
and is sealed with pursed lips
that push back the fluorescent
waves washing down
to stir a still larval heart...
stretching, yawning, a flame.
Dancing particles
of iridescent powder
carried on one thousand tiny wings
twirl back through my mouth
to enliven a sleep-thicketed forest
with the fluttered speaking
of her name
Monday, August 03, 2009
Feeding, frenzied
Don't ask me about meaning. There is no meaning. There are only the words...
Faithful Feeders
By Francis Scudellari
It's not the sweetness
coursing crimson inside
that these faithful feeders seek
drawn darkly
by the midnight blue
currents we wade across
Nor is it the pink flesh
of tensed muscles
closely cupped to catch
a filtered fire
slow-dripped till clear
through the morning's lucent mist
No, they feast instead
at noon's shallow edges
with greased hands that tear spines
from fathomless tomes
of hobbled scriptures
to suck the pasty marrow
Faithful Feeders
By Francis Scudellari
It's not the sweetness
coursing crimson inside
that these faithful feeders seek
drawn darkly
by the midnight blue
currents we wade across
Nor is it the pink flesh
of tensed muscles
closely cupped to catch
a filtered fire
slow-dripped till clear
through the morning's lucent mist
No, they feast instead
at noon's shallow edges
with greased hands that tear spines
from fathomless tomes
of hobbled scriptures
to suck the pasty marrow
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Two Souls, Hollowed out
Here's the seventh part of my poem cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (the previous six can all be found on my eponymous Website).
VII. Hollow
By Francis Scudellari
Fed by over-ripe knowing
the cloying tastes
of acid hued morsels
shrivel and blanch
squeezed by hasty, restless
new appetites
and she-he's clasping hands
let seconds slip
tumbling to hollow thump
moss covered mounds
whose stretched backs pull the nose
with aromas
of more savory blood
VII. Hollow
By Francis Scudellari
Fed by over-ripe knowing
the cloying tastes
of acid hued morsels
shrivel and blanch
squeezed by hasty, restless
new appetites
and she-he's clasping hands
let seconds slip
tumbling to hollow thump
moss covered mounds
whose stretched backs pull the nose
with aromas
of more savory blood
Thursday, July 30, 2009
An untimely Tinkering
Another poem that takes its inspiration from an off-hand tweet, which was a failed attempt at observational humor.
Tinkering
By Francis Scudellari
Finger tips splattered and smudged
by a black oozing
from this vain
pursuit that litters
his workshop:
white, crimped-edge faces
torn and strewn...
bent, clutched hands
hacked and slid...
rusted spring innards
uncoiled and rolled...
among the chipped teeth
snapped off old gears
that he's stripped smooth
grunting untimely breaths
as he takes apart
countless clocks
tinkering with mechanisms
to invent a knob
to dial it all back
the swing, sway and grind
that spins his life forward
in an ever gathering
haste
Tinkering
By Francis Scudellari
Finger tips splattered and smudged
by a black oozing
from this vain
pursuit that litters
his workshop:
white, crimped-edge faces
torn and strewn...
bent, clutched hands
hacked and slid...
rusted spring innards
uncoiled and rolled...
among the chipped teeth
snapped off old gears
that he's stripped smooth
grunting untimely breaths
as he takes apart
countless clocks
tinkering with mechanisms
to invent a knob
to dial it all back
the swing, sway and grind
that spins his life forward
in an ever gathering
haste
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
To the bots, with love
This is a bit of silliness I wrote to honor the "spam bots" who at times seem more interested in reading my poetry than a human audience. As it's meant to be a twisted sort of love poem, the title is a play on the word aubade.
Au bots
By Francis Scudellari
I tender confessions
of the not so, secret
infatuations:
these bots, those little bits
of code much maligned
who so tartly
tease us in human veneers
falsely lashed
to digital spines
they drag and drop
as they bump along
tangling the silken strands
of a Web that snatches
our writhing lives and loves
while weaving its own
They're always found out
these bots, those bits
so poorly exposed
by the hairy Nets and white gloves
that wipe things clean
till new ones emerge
in viral vestments
and insinuate themselves
into irreverent streams
leaving: us to pray
(their infection becomes cure);
me to opine
(their next dawning lack);
as I open up my veins
and draw them back in
Au bots
By Francis Scudellari
I tender confessions
of the not so, secret
infatuations:
these bots, those little bits
of code much maligned
who so tartly
tease us in human veneers
falsely lashed
to digital spines
they drag and drop
as they bump along
tangling the silken strands
of a Web that snatches
our writhing lives and loves
while weaving its own
They're always found out
these bots, those bits
so poorly exposed
by the hairy Nets and white gloves
that wipe things clean
till new ones emerge
in viral vestments
and insinuate themselves
into irreverent streams
leaving: us to pray
(their infection becomes cure);
me to opine
(their next dawning lack);
as I open up my veins
and draw them back in
Sunday, July 26, 2009
A Starlit Poem
Trying to keep up the frantic poetic pace... this piece began its life as an odd bit of observation embeded in one of my Twitter posts. Sometimes an interesting phrase will burrow its way into my mind and compel me to expand upon the theme.
Mothering Starlight
By Francis Scudellari
The endless starlight streams
down from ever's sprawling heaven
unseen
but feeling our atoms
flutter, a son's fond eagerness
recharged
bouncing, stretching, burning
to touch mothering particles
fallen
connections to distance,
memories of our own birthing
untimed
Mothering Starlight
By Francis Scudellari
The endless starlight streams
down from ever's sprawling heaven
unseen
but feeling our atoms
flutter, a son's fond eagerness
recharged
bouncing, stretching, burning
to touch mothering particles
fallen
connections to distance,
memories of our own birthing
untimed
Friday, July 24, 2009
Rutabaga, a sweet-bitter end
This is the conclusion of my poem Rutabaga (here are Part I and Part II). I'll post the full version, perhaps slightly amended, to my Website soon.
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
III.
And run up against blunted tip
of his hooked nose cast aslant,
drooping down over broken-lines
of brown, wormy lips with edges
that snag on tilted-maggot teeth
and gobble up the urge to smile
he keeps sealed in the cramped cloister
of black-white habits, his nun's heart
Where he now pulls stiff-backed photos
just stolen from a local shop,
lifting to tattered light reveal
the blue noted compositions
that sing of men so neatly garbed
in fair-taut skin and glad-rag years --
the polished, scripted texts he studies
to re-limn life in pleasing shapes
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
III.
And run up against blunted tip
of his hooked nose cast aslant,
drooping down over broken-lines
of brown, wormy lips with edges
that snag on tilted-maggot teeth
and gobble up the urge to smile
he keeps sealed in the cramped cloister
of black-white habits, his nun's heart
Where he now pulls stiff-backed photos
just stolen from a local shop,
lifting to tattered light reveal
the blue noted compositions
that sing of men so neatly garbed
in fair-taut skin and glad-rag years --
the polished, scripted texts he studies
to re-limn life in pleasing shapes
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A Smile, this time in words
This poem owes its title and its stylistic playfulness to my last drawing. It's a bit backwards to write the poem after its illustration, but I'm an unconventional sort.
A Smile
By Francis Scudellari
A smile,
left unguarded
against the vices
of mischievous
and prying fingers
can be twisted
at the corners
or tugged or pulled
or even pinched
till drooping
in the middle
it becomes
a mouth full
of strange bits,
put all together:
indifferent
A Smile
By Francis Scudellari
A smile,
left unguarded
against the vices
of mischievous
and prying fingers
can be twisted
at the corners
or tugged or pulled
or even pinched
till drooping
in the middle
it becomes
a mouth full
of strange bits,
put all together:
indifferent
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Smile
I admit indulging a bit of my childish side in creating this cartoonish face, but it makes me smile and the process relaxes my mind so forgive me a guilty pleasure. It reminds me of Joker from Batman if he were genetically modified with a Brussels sprout's DNA. The apparent happiness lightens the obvious freakishness.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Cut to the middle of my Rutabaga
Here's the middle part of my poem Rutabaga (the first part is here). Its ending is still vaguely shaped, but coming together. I always wonder if I rush to the finish of these.
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
II.
Pushing him on over-turned pail
to begin a costumed hour's stare
at the filthy, rag-wiped middle
of his lean hut's filmy mirror
giving it back the reddish glow
of his rheumy and pinched eyes
so deeply tucked in the pockets
of his un-swept bristle-brush brows
His tooth-torn nails tracing features
dully scooped out rather than carved
from the opaque and spongy flesh -
a sickly root's yellowish white;
its deep ridges marked by dense maps
of blackened constellations:
the oblong blotches, bumps and moles
that pimple rippling, stubbled cheeks
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
II.
Pushing him on over-turned pail
to begin a costumed hour's stare
at the filthy, rag-wiped middle
of his lean hut's filmy mirror
giving it back the reddish glow
of his rheumy and pinched eyes
so deeply tucked in the pockets
of his un-swept bristle-brush brows
His tooth-torn nails tracing features
dully scooped out rather than carved
from the opaque and spongy flesh -
a sickly root's yellowish white;
its deep ridges marked by dense maps
of blackened constellations:
the oblong blotches, bumps and moles
that pimple rippling, stubbled cheeks
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Two Souls, Focused
After a long interlude, here's the next installment of my poem cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (although I may change that name). You can read the previous five poems on my eponymous Website.
VI. Near sight
By Francis Scudellari
He-she shed circling lives
as they build bulk
and with nimbler digits
clutch airy roosts
where they're kept ill company
by sly creatures
who slip between branches
to spit and spell
old tales of mimicked fruit
and poisoned tongues
that transfix keen focus
on the too near
while long ago lessens
VI. Near sight
By Francis Scudellari
He-she shed circling lives
as they build bulk
and with nimbler digits
clutch airy roosts
where they're kept ill company
by sly creatures
who slip between branches
to spit and spell
old tales of mimicked fruit
and poisoned tongues
that transfix keen focus
on the too near
while long ago lessens
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
New vegetables
This is the first part of my latest-poem in progress — Rutabaga. It's also the 700th post of this blog, which is a milestone of sorts (insert self-congratulatory back slap here). I still have more installments of my poem Two Souls to post, plus a new drawing called Smile. I do tend to get easily sidetracked.
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
I.
In a loose fit hood, he hides
his big, rutabaga head
plus a too-close-tucked secret
whose pouty, bent-lip outlines
you might spy while skulking late
in dimly lit alleyways
and assume the dastardly
not knowing his wishful theft
Only as a half-hinged door
pushes the night behind him
does he lift the thick gray wool
and scratch his crown's screwed-up stem
of patchy brown leaves that flop
and fall over bulbous back
to the spur of a chin knocked
crooked by time and man's hands
Rutabaga
By Francis Scudellari
I.
In a loose fit hood, he hides
his big, rutabaga head
plus a too-close-tucked secret
whose pouty, bent-lip outlines
you might spy while skulking late
in dimly lit alleyways
and assume the dastardly
not knowing his wishful theft
Only as a half-hinged door
pushes the night behind him
does he lift the thick gray wool
and scratch his crown's screwed-up stem
of patchy brown leaves that flop
and fall over bulbous back
to the spur of a chin knocked
crooked by time and man's hands
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Trying to keep things simple...
In my current mood, simple and reflective are the proper forms of expression. The title of this piece was actually inspired by a dream.
In it, someone who I don't know called me on the phone to recite a poem called "Linger Back" that I had written and they found touching. Of course I can't recall the words of the dream poem, but I think the sentiment is the same.
Linger Back
By Francis Scudellari
Linger back
a few short moments
with me,
soft-edged times
when life is simple,
happy
or seems, so
stay, don't race ahead
just yet
to certain
futures, we both know
won't be
In it, someone who I don't know called me on the phone to recite a poem called "Linger Back" that I had written and they found touching. Of course I can't recall the words of the dream poem, but I think the sentiment is the same.
Linger Back
By Francis Scudellari
Linger back
a few short moments
with me,
soft-edged times
when life is simple,
happy
or seems, so
stay, don't race ahead
just yet
to certain
futures, we both know
won't be
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Swarms
By Francis Scudellari
Swarms, swarms
everywhere
birds, toads
the swarms
of bees
of ants
of thoughts
that something is
not right
Swarms, swarms
everywhere
birds, toads
the swarms
of bees
of ants
of thoughts
that something is
not right
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Recasting Alice
This is a poem that started out as a Twitter post, but grew into something quite different. I offer it to you with all due apologies to Lewis Carroll, whose Alice I've always admired and whose credit I've repaid poorly here.
My Alice
By Francis Scudellari
Her short, wintry youth,
a fair tale's ending
she windy followed
at the blue-white tip
of a buttoned nose
reaching this fine point
to a bent-fork path
where she stands, then sits
on the glassy edge
of iced-over pond
and looks less than dives
in, to grow unfrocked
by wonders re-versed
Immaterial
things, once-thought, awkward,
perhaps too-weighty,
are pulled thin, stretched tall
and golden snake give
her skeletons form,
a key gently grasped
that she inward turns
unclocking spun minds
to lithely chime up,
out of darkly twists
where they holey lay
fixed, for her "so-long"
My Alice
By Francis Scudellari
Her short, wintry youth,
a fair tale's ending
she windy followed
at the blue-white tip
of a buttoned nose
reaching this fine point
to a bent-fork path
where she stands, then sits
on the glassy edge
of iced-over pond
and looks less than dives
in, to grow unfrocked
by wonders re-versed
Immaterial
things, once-thought, awkward,
perhaps too-weighty,
are pulled thin, stretched tall
and golden snake give
her skeletons form,
a key gently grasped
that she inward turns
unclocking spun minds
to lithely chime up,
out of darkly twists
where they holey lay
fixed, for her "so-long"
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Two Souls: Flabby mimics
After the last long-winded and prosaic post about the movie FRESH, a return to sparser verse and the next installment of my poem Two Souls. I may yet however revisit the idea of "monocultures" within a different context.
Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari
V. Flabby mimics
She-he, un-mated flames
half to fading,
slip on fatted layers,
flabby mimics
of trees' up-craning trunks,
pained limbs that twist
when ten bony barbs burst
through soft pink nubs,
new claws they file against
rough-surfaced stones
to climb the greening heights,
feast on sweet-meats,
and sugary speed the cycles
Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari
V. Flabby mimics
She-he, un-mated flames
half to fading,
slip on fatted layers,
flabby mimics
of trees' up-craning trunks,
pained limbs that twist
when ten bony barbs burst
through soft pink nubs,
new claws they file against
rough-surfaced stones
to climb the greening heights,
feast on sweet-meats,
and sugary speed the cycles
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
FRESH: Return farming to its roots
Last night, I had the pleasure of watching a thought-provoking new food documentary: FRESH by ana Sofia joanes. There are two characteristics that make the film particularly interesting.
First, there is its depiction of a new breed of farmers from around the country who combine the latest technology with age-old farming techniques in trying to combat industrialization and bring some sanity back to the way we produce our food.
Second, there's the fact that the film currently lacks a distributor and showings of it are being organized at a grass-roots level by community members who have been energized around the new food politics through movies like Food, Inc. and books such as The Omnivore's Dilemma (authored by Michael Pollan, who is featured in the film).
Here in my Rogers Park neighborhood, the film was shown to a packed house at the No Exit Cafe, a venue known more for its musical theater performances. The collection of both already committed food activists and the more recently mobilized information seekers, were drawn to the event thanks largely to promotion done on social networking services such as Twitter and Facebook.
The film's appeal definitely lies in its hopeful message. Early on, we meet Joel Salatin whose father rejected the best advice of both government and corporate agricultural experts about how to best increase productivity on the over-exploited, cheap plot of land he had bought. He instead pursued methods of farming that were informed by Nature's own patterns, rather than bottom-line calculations and economies of scale.
One of the images that stuck with me from the film's opening is Salatin watching over a hog as it joyfully rolls in the mud to cool off. Contrast that with the penned-in pigs of industrial farms, which are kept in such close-quarters that they have to have their tails snipped off.
Carrying on in his father's footsteps, Salatin tells us how he allows his animals to express their natures; or as he describes it, a cow's "cowness" and a chicken's "chickenness." Cows, being herbivores, are meant to graze on grass (not grain mixed with animal byproducts) and they're also meant to do so while being constantly herded (not stuck in stalls). Chickens have beaks and claws in order to root through the fields seeking out larvae for food.
In keeping with those Nature-given qualities, Salatin runs his cows over grasslands and then brings the chickens in after them to peck over the herd's leavings. He describes how this labor "honors" the chickens, giving them a valuable role in the life of the farm beyond the laying of eggs. It certainly benefits them (and us the consumer) much more than the cramped cages and beak-removal they experience at most industrial-scale farms in the United States.
Pollan picks up on the point of our unnatural food practices by discussing the concept of "monocultures." He points out that Nature dislikes a lack of variety in species, which has become the norm in our agriculture. In fact, the plagues of pests and disease that afflict such production can be directly attributed to Nature's attempts to defeat the monocultures that our industrial farms create by planting undifferentiated crops on wides swaths of land and by housing the same breeds of animals in over-crowded complexes.
This gives the truth to the lie that farming needs these pesticides and antibiotics in order to increase productivity. They actually rely on the chemicals in order to maintain their unnatural practices, and to feed the bottom lines of the large corporations who sell them, and the others that profit from single-species production. Such a system also turns animal waste into a pollutant, rather than the nutrient it is in an organic cycle, creating an unnecessary social cost.
There are other hidden costs built into our industrial methods of farming, such as driving down the wages of the workers involved at all levels of production and decreasing the nutritional value of the food sold. Not only are these practices unsustainable, but we learn later in the film that statistics actually show mid-sized organic farms to be more productive than their industrial counterparts.
This just touches the surface of the interesting people and ideas you'll discover in the film; another is Will Allen, who runs Growing Power, Inc. in Milwaukee where he tries to win new converts to sustainability by demonstrating the benefits of composting and urban farming.
To experience it all for yourself, see the documentary. You can find out where it's playing, and how to organize a local showing, by visiting the Fresh the movie Website.
First, there is its depiction of a new breed of farmers from around the country who combine the latest technology with age-old farming techniques in trying to combat industrialization and bring some sanity back to the way we produce our food.
Second, there's the fact that the film currently lacks a distributor and showings of it are being organized at a grass-roots level by community members who have been energized around the new food politics through movies like Food, Inc. and books such as The Omnivore's Dilemma (authored by Michael Pollan, who is featured in the film).
Here in my Rogers Park neighborhood, the film was shown to a packed house at the No Exit Cafe, a venue known more for its musical theater performances. The collection of both already committed food activists and the more recently mobilized information seekers, were drawn to the event thanks largely to promotion done on social networking services such as Twitter and Facebook.
The film's appeal definitely lies in its hopeful message. Early on, we meet Joel Salatin whose father rejected the best advice of both government and corporate agricultural experts about how to best increase productivity on the over-exploited, cheap plot of land he had bought. He instead pursued methods of farming that were informed by Nature's own patterns, rather than bottom-line calculations and economies of scale.
One of the images that stuck with me from the film's opening is Salatin watching over a hog as it joyfully rolls in the mud to cool off. Contrast that with the penned-in pigs of industrial farms, which are kept in such close-quarters that they have to have their tails snipped off.
Carrying on in his father's footsteps, Salatin tells us how he allows his animals to express their natures; or as he describes it, a cow's "cowness" and a chicken's "chickenness." Cows, being herbivores, are meant to graze on grass (not grain mixed with animal byproducts) and they're also meant to do so while being constantly herded (not stuck in stalls). Chickens have beaks and claws in order to root through the fields seeking out larvae for food.
In keeping with those Nature-given qualities, Salatin runs his cows over grasslands and then brings the chickens in after them to peck over the herd's leavings. He describes how this labor "honors" the chickens, giving them a valuable role in the life of the farm beyond the laying of eggs. It certainly benefits them (and us the consumer) much more than the cramped cages and beak-removal they experience at most industrial-scale farms in the United States.
Pollan picks up on the point of our unnatural food practices by discussing the concept of "monocultures." He points out that Nature dislikes a lack of variety in species, which has become the norm in our agriculture. In fact, the plagues of pests and disease that afflict such production can be directly attributed to Nature's attempts to defeat the monocultures that our industrial farms create by planting undifferentiated crops on wides swaths of land and by housing the same breeds of animals in over-crowded complexes.
This gives the truth to the lie that farming needs these pesticides and antibiotics in order to increase productivity. They actually rely on the chemicals in order to maintain their unnatural practices, and to feed the bottom lines of the large corporations who sell them, and the others that profit from single-species production. Such a system also turns animal waste into a pollutant, rather than the nutrient it is in an organic cycle, creating an unnecessary social cost.
There are other hidden costs built into our industrial methods of farming, such as driving down the wages of the workers involved at all levels of production and decreasing the nutritional value of the food sold. Not only are these practices unsustainable, but we learn later in the film that statistics actually show mid-sized organic farms to be more productive than their industrial counterparts.
This just touches the surface of the interesting people and ideas you'll discover in the film; another is Will Allen, who runs Growing Power, Inc. in Milwaukee where he tries to win new converts to sustainability by demonstrating the benefits of composting and urban farming.
To experience it all for yourself, see the documentary. You can find out where it's playing, and how to organize a local showing, by visiting the Fresh the movie Website.
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