Thursday, March 29, 2012

"Pain is spawned by pain, as kindness is spawned by kindness."



-FMG

Thursday, March 29, 2012

“In the Eyes of Cynical Men”

            Angst sprouts from the scalp of a cynical man as silver locks of a vanishing soul.  Preserved are his judgments for a deaf god, by which he struts in sacrifice upon the soils of scorn.  He is a walking shadow upon a stage of tales told by the utterance of fools, and his tongue swells by the intervention of his conscience so as not to dismember such fiends with his serpent of gawking eyes.  The world trickles from his fingertips into the ensnare of Kharybdis, and his guffaw of pleasure eases her fastidious appetite.  He smirks at those whose claims spume perfumes of the common aroma of unprecedented qualities and quintessential authority, for by heart he has memorized the will of God's vociferous hands that emulsify the ingredients of paragons.  He fears nothing, he recycles his breath in dislike of that of which his foes consume, and his power is augmented by the plentiful vexation of others.  It is the mind by which he was gifted that receives no fracture by the dares of mankind.  He is the one that they cannot defeat, and he knows it.  A cynical man welcomes the wrath of God in purpose to spite the sentence of life.  Angst is a control of cognizance.  It is a game beyond the capabilities of men dressed in kingly tunics who stumble upon security in the gardens of infinitesimal pebbles on the grounds of limitation by which this game is played.  Blood is drawn not by he who is acquainted with the most sin, but rather by he who understands how to use the most sin so as to become acquainted with another upon the moment of their final dying breath.  The cynical man has signified nothing, but has amplified what only cynical men may become.  Being a man of excessive character withers that character into the enemy of its original self.

-Francesca Mildred Gualano

Thursday, March 15, 2012

RIDING LESSON
Henry Taylor
I learned two things
from an early riding teacher.
He held a nervous filly
in one hand and gestured
with the other, saying, “Listen.
Keep one leg on one side,
the other leg on the other side,
and your mind in the middle.”
He turned and mounted.
She took two steps, then left
The ground, I thought for good.
But she came down hard, humped
her back, swallowed her neck,
and threw her rider as you’d
throw a rock. He rose, brushed
his pants and caught his breath,
and said, “See, that’s the way
to do it. When you see
they’re gonna throw you, get off."

Thursday, March 15, 2012

“English”

A cloud of abstract bonds of bathed errors,

Of butterflies in a whirlwind of thunder.

An abuse of grey summer,

Guarded no longer by the blessed warlock of wind.

A wish of clarity in emotions,

Memories of the able thought in search of a pencil’s lead.

In the speech of a stream of silk words,

Showers a radical giggle of expression.

Clocks intertwine upon God’s grid of sketch.

In a stall of forgotten fears,

Pain is the note of the orchestral hush,

Caressing the depressed skull of swine.

By omnipresent meditation in the spindle of worldly search,

Freedom cooperates with fate.

Shed poetic spirit in an ethereal prose.

Despite who may catch the hints in the palms of their angel,

The author will always guffaw with pride in their own.

Find what you are looking for,

For the flight of your veteran from the war of fiction lies in daggered footsteps,

Towards the deceptive spring of hospitality.

Need not worry though,

For the scarlet autumn is near.

The English language is a festival of glimmer.

Walk into the warmth of Her arms,

And from tyranny She shall whisper the alphabet of bejeweled conscience.

Let Her dove of tongue migrate into the soul of your self,

For it is that life within you that shall constellate,

As sure as Luna is destined to smile,

Whether it be in the eclipse of a divine shadow,

Or in the spray of painted light.

-FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

"A Gentle Kiss of Life"

Her legs crossed neatly upon the park bench,

Careful so as not to expose any array of beauty.

Chilled by the air,

She wears a cloak of unreadable scriptures.

Her lips are pursed with a deceptive secret,

Awaiting Her opportunity for revelation.

Jaded,

She stops Ms. Time so as to converse.

Silently,

She coveys the message,

Soon being once again left to observation.

Cautiously,

She raises Her bottom leg,

Placing it gently upon the other,

Tending to the proper indicative of class.

Eyes,

Now fastened to the park bench,

Giggle with content in arrangement.

She is luck.

She is death.

She is fame,

And She is wisdom.

This pride has carved a permanent smile upon Her face,

A proper smile.

She stands upon Her two feet,

Removing the dreadful cloak in the humidity of hunger who sits upon that little park bench.

She dresses Her left body with designer cloth.

The label reads:

Heaven.

Her shoe is detailed with lace carvings upon wooden velvet,

And Her heart spumes the perfumes of Her angels.

Upon the right,

She holds a dagger,

Dripping with blood of the guilty conscience,

Thirsty for death of evil,

And Her eye is smeared with viscous paint of symbol.

Today,

A most grandiose day in the park,

She notices a young lady.

Ever so properly,

She holds the girl's hand with Her own upon the left,

Kissing it with the gentle lips of Life.

-FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

"From Every Corner of Earth Lives The Sun"

Giza's vertex,

The link between the sun of Heaven and the pharaohs of Egypt,

Isolated by the airways of travel in a torrent of heat in the midst of the desert twines.

Nebuchadnezzar II's ceiling,

Gardens hanging from the clouds of Babylon,

Suspended by the delicate fingers of God's angels,

Whose eyes glow brightly upon the land with rays of the blonde sun.

The cradle of Olympia,

Upon the hill that birthed the chariot of Helios,

Blessed by gods and goddesses of the myth,

Entwined with ribbons of the divine accolades of ambitious wrath.

Ephesus,

The fountain of Artemis,

Whose temple sways in the premature waves of the wind's whistles to the star of glory.

The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus,

A tomb of ancient conquest,

Swallowing the star with a thirst for life.

Colossus of Rhodes,

Template of eloquent stature,

Bringer of the dwarf to the Holy Land.

Reflector of light,

Summoner of Alexandria in the kingdom of heat,

Lighthouse of the battling darkness.

Centric of Rome,

A bisector of fire,

Cast by the sun,

In the dial of time,

Whispers of the gladiators of the ancient Coliseum.

The astronomical channel.

A tunnel of illumination refracted by the stars in the stream of the cosmos,

Revolving about sol in elliptical patterns of destiny.

In an array of golden allusions,

Gated by a bridge of sun-crisped spectacles,

Lies a castle of metallic beams upon platforms of intuitive nature.

Pebbles of incandescent water poured from the pitcher of Niagara's mouth,

A falls of enchantment,

Streaming from the distant light into the caverns of fluorescent curiosity.

Two twins,

Marked by honor and respect,

Evident from every corner of Earth,

For directly above is the sun's core,

Forever beaming the gem of God.

From home,

A locus of silence in a forest of charmed species,

Where the overhanging branches of dangling dew drool showers of a refreshing mist,

And the sun sprays a gentle thrust of heat into the soul of the world.

A thought is born.

 -FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Upon the Finger Tips of Man Lies a Book

The eyes of a book sleep in the skeptical whispers of its reader.  Remedies brew within, and in the midst of gravity a thought is birthed by an influential shimmer in the eve of day.  The lips of a book reverberate and mimic the words of its student.  Eloquent currents of the tongue, as of those in the stream of imagination, whisk revelations in a batter of innovation.  The spine of a book, where beauty lies in gray locks as opposed to silk grooves of blond fibers, for pride and eminence lie in the fractures of the unprecedented sews of its flesh.  As it proceeds generations of woes, guffaws, and tears, it becomes stained with a spice of foreign flavors that savors in the stew of human perception.  The sensation of the touch of a nimble papyrus pane of a book tempts its reader to flutter through a window of crystal lattices in a terrain of frosted flowers in the summer snow.  And, balanced upon the cynical finger tips of man, it twirls in a shower of omniscient charisma.

-FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

A Lending Hand

            She relieves the pressure of her stance, seated at the front of the classroom with a teacher's smile.  Like a clock tower, she lends twelve hands to the cognizance of her peers.  Ears are perched in preparation to respond to a plea for assistance, and her backbone demonstrates a confident posture of experienced nature.  The veins of her eyes churn in the consumption of visual acquaintance.  Tongue is decked with words earned in time's lesson hall.  Her hair is a cascade of attentiveness to dignity that trickles into the ponds of triumph.  She is a statue of genuine self, chiseled from pure marble by God's hands.

-FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Carpets of Expectations

            Unfortunate though his physical condition, tarred to a mechanical chair that is mocked by fools, his daily glee compliments his appreciation for life.  Deprived of pleasures that would carve smiles upon his face at the thought of ability to experience, he yet obtains dignity in his stare when communicating with others, for embarrassment fails to puncture the lattice of hope that quilts his eyes with comfort.  He is a unique being, unlike any other who struts upon the carpets of expectations from God, and the heart that he is blessed with weighs more upon the scale of divinity than does beauty of skin.  He knows, as do I, that a person's skin tans in the summer and becomes pallid in the winter, but the soul is unchangeable, for it is written in a language known only to its self and in an ink bled from its own blood.  The scriptures that Mark the pages of his soul are of benevolent significance, written in iron pen.

-FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Virginia Ave

            It is a place that yet peeks into my memories with on looking ogles of curiosity.  It is a dear charm that twinkles in the sky above its nest.  Narrow and bordered with houses swept clean with the sun’s smile, a gentle touch of elation and serenity revives the day.  Upon the peak of the avenue, my eyes swallowed the vast sea, attempting to irrigate the watchmen at the point of limitation in sight, imagining what I was deprived of.  The waves tickled the jetty with kisses good morning, and thus replenished the dreamy spectacles of the starfish that quartered themselves in the barnacles encrusted with seaweed.  The crabs drifted with the beat of the ocean as it swung to and fro the shoreline.  My toes cupped the grains of sand, greeting them and recognizing them from yesterday’s massage.  It is a most magnificent feeling presented by God alone.  The pulses of my heart received direct messages from the life in the blue, as though in a silent memorandum untraceably inherited.  And the boardwalk divided this world of majestic velocity from corrupted measures of foreign authority.  Into the dunes and from the elevated walks I pranced, and there the Earth caught me with arms of iron delicacy.  It comforted me so that I forever sleep peacefully in its arms, arms whose swing is forever conformed to my memory.  I know this feeling all to well, for it is a connection written in the contract of the sea, which I signed in the sands that swept my signature into the chest of its liquid flock.  It is kept dry by the warmth of the key that yet churns in the lock of recollection.  The sea glass lie as petals disconnected from the stem of my palms, a path for the horseshoe crabs and survivors.  As Brother and I tossed each other into the currents spiced with salted locks, the sun watched with eyes that wept life into the seagulls perched in guard of our arena.  When the lifeguards neared us to burry our holes, invade our castles, or block the indefinite ocean from tanning our skin with natural balms before the strike of five upon the clock, we smiled.  We smiled because such smiles were carved by the cognizance and slyness of the waves.  When they left, the beach was ours in entirety.  We painted tracks in the dunes with our quads, wrestled with our German shepherd, severed the waves with our laughs, and did exactly what two young children born at the shore would do, and the sea watched with a grin that spanned its complete self with arms bent, legs up, and breath expelled with ease and satisfaction in prospect.  That life is a place, and that place is a life forever.

 -FMG

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Courtroom Injustice

            Justice’s feet are immobilized by the iron webbed between Her toes.  Yet, the fabric blindfold that taints her eyes with a spectacle of viewing all souls equally is slightly sloped, and one eye peeks with diversity in perspective upon the accused.  A man, suffocated in a time predestined by his stars, struts in draperies mocking the chainmail of the medieval era.  Eyes, deprived of light in a moist prison cell for nine years, agitated by the spontaneous ooze brilliant light from the courtroom.  Face is pallid, yet blotched with a gray beard of time.  Hitherto, Justice thrusts him into a marathon of fit preparation.  He is warned.   Teased by the tentacles of Her veils, he remains helpless in the realm of Her sword’s peak.  Her breath is a greater weight upon the scale of righteousness, and he thus remains in an airless atmosphere where Death giggles upon the storm clouds of vengeance.  The clock tower reverberates with the echoes of sly proportions orchestrated by the swift currents of her calluses, and, at this hour, the man decorates Her arm with a motionless appeal.  His thunderous blood trickles from his innocent mouth shaped like a pitcher by Justice’s crafty hands.  It jogs down her cloak in elliptical patterns of scarlet rust.  His eyes stare into Her eye, and Her mind chases mensrae in ferocious velocity from the chambers of scheming.  Legs are rootless stems of life, waltzing in the rampant colors of a ballroom blitz with a landscape of gallows, and his tale is defunct by the bookmen of courtroom injustice.

-FMG