A Mad World Poem: Queue the Music

A collaborative poem with my talented friend Christine of https://braveandrecklessblog.com/ -Gecko

applause
fills my ears like
gin in my glass
accolades for how well
I convey pain
others consume
I am their proxy
their stand-in
these words
tears
blood
I give
tiny pins
that prick
nerves like
strings
tying up
this human condition
I am grateful
appreciative
for the shot
at the main stage
the time you give
me to speak for
the lonely
the voiceless
the desperate
the crowd
praises my performance
my art
feeling too much
music
fades
me
out
this fancy
red carpet
dress returns
to an empty
dressing room
to drink the gin
alone

My Lonely Seasons Pass/A Mad World Poem

“Gecko, I do believe they are working on a series this time.”
“Yes, Mouse, I do believe you are right. Something about the emptiness of modern life.”
“Well, that’s certainly a departure!”
A collaboration between Christine of Brave and Reckless and Stephen Fuller of Pointed Home.

The days blend, one into the other,
Waking naked into the world, I stare
Into a meaningless blur trying for
Definition with a shave and makeup
Armor to protect from soulless work
Seeping inside these walls to steal
What remains of my fight. I sleep
Empty in bed, cold featureless sheets
Cover my flesh, only virgin pillows
Wrapped in white, offering contours.
Loneliness like a season failing passage.

My Lonely Seasons Pass/A Mad World Poem: Christine Ray & S. Francis

Long Johns Conceal Love (for Bobby)

“Long johns, my friend, we need to put them on to stave the cold”
It feels colder these days than when as kids we built snowmen,
Rode our flexible flyer down the hill, brave and reckless, laughing.
We wake in the morning with stiff fingers and an unusual chill: 40?
New England would laugh a collective laugh at our need for layers.
Yet, here we are, in our pit, in our mire, seeking rock for our feet,
Fingers numb to the bone, the pain we feel hard to diagnose, known
Inside our souls, yet we only share part of the details, what our shame
Forgets to hide as we try and abate our shivering flesh, ripped away
From the bones that once held us upright and strong as we climbed
Back up the hill once our laughter filled the valley of drifted snow.
Are we far from those teenagers now? Without conviction I say yes.
Yet, the 17 year old looks down on me in my wasted state of weakness
And knows he is already the better man and turns to his mother to say
“I will be edgy and cool without a diploma.” “We have to watch over her.”
He doesn’t know about long johns or laughter in the snow drift valley.
The blades of the flexible flyer have rusted. My sins have overcome me.
I have become poor and needy, and look up to this little Lord, help me
Do not delay your thoughts, chill climbing my bones needs a blanket.
Do not conceal your love, cover me up, so that all might see mercy.

I believe this was a collaboration between me and Christine Ray, or maybe it was just something she said that prompted this piece, either way. She deserves her usual credit for her faith in me, for her faith in my words, and for just being a general Badass.

Spend some time with her and her amazing network of beautiful writers!
leap in:
The Path My Feet Must Follow

Image: Vineyards and Snow, by Julian Merrow-Smith
Postcard from Provence: a daily painting blog, fresh daily since 2005