Contigo Frank Ryan
Diamond Blade Frank Ryan
Homage to a Certain Chopon Tom Pathe
Take Care Frank Ryan
The Kiss Frank Ryan
When We Gather Frank Ryan
Yes Villanelle Frank Ryan
Contigo Frank Ryan
6:55 am, Monday through Friday
mother and daughter descend the hillside
then glide along the asphalt path
towards Perkins St.
Rising sun basks their faces—
some mornings temperate breeze of early November,
at times penetrating wind and overcast sky,
other days sudden tempest of blustery Nor’easter
Hands entwined with natural affection
bond between them never tentative
forged in love, tempered by trust,
they separate for only a few hours each day
Across the street as bundled joggers,
along with tempo traffic of engines and exhaust
circling Jamaica Pond, the families gather
until the yellow school bus arrives
Each child
chambers up the narrow stairs
into the warmth of the bus,
letting the day unfold
Diamond Blade Frank Ryan
Cut by itself
razor of intimacy
yet
suffused by love
and responsiveness
unchanging yet
accommodating it all
stillness of each moment
arising as a kiss
Homage to a Certain Chopon as Vajrayogini Tom Pathe
Such fire flies
between her
legs
take me
away
sliding me
down
toward
Enlightenment
all my smiles
in
the right place
on
my knees
Take Care Frank Ryan
Two weeks ago
inadvertently broke
my favorite cup,
unfortunate but true,
numerous pieces swiftly swept
into the bin.
There was still time to vote
and begin recovery from surgery
as Autumn light continued to dim
November to December.
Take care,
all of us assuming
that we’ll always be around,
no guarantee in that
even a favorite cup
is not beyond the play of vicissitudes.
Certainly ten year forecasts
as well as saving for retirement still makes sense,
but simply delighting
moment to moment, day to day
ain’t a bad backup plan.
The Kiss Frank Ryan
Will the kiss of immediacy fly?
remain unrehearsed and unannounced,
or will simply days, months & years go by?
Temperate winds coursing the sky,
thunderous roars,
will the kiss of immediacy fly?
Untethered from being either hesitant or sly,
discovering each moment arises as its’ own feast,
or will simply days, months & years go by?
Torches illumine the darkening sky,
circle of loving family and friends,
will the kiss of immediacy fly?
Much to celebrate and rely,
satisfying triumphs, sudden reversals, piercing joys,
or will simply days, months & years go by?
Only not wavering from nowess will satisfy,
humble—immersed in genuineness,
will the kiss of immediacy fly
or will simply days, months & years go by?
New moon – Sunday, September 25 @ 5:54 pm (EST)
When We Gather Frank Ryan
When we gather,
everyone, from close and from far
he walks slowly into the room
but greets everyone with gentle smile
and inquisitive eyes,
August afternoon adorned by cirrus clouds
and murmur of children
He will not live forever,
no one does,
but this moment,
seated on recliner leather chair
surrounded by friends, at ease beneath
early twentieth century photos and tender ones,
heart opens
food carefully prepared,
cheerfully offered,
conversations threading past and present,
the avenues and streets of Worcester
responsive and alive,
gather to honor this moment
both ordinary and rare
Yes, Villanelle Frank Ryan
Yes, Villanelle is a psychopathic assassin who works for a crime syndicate called The Twelve,
created by award-winning Phoebe Mary Waller-Bridge for the streaming series Killing Eve.
However…. it is also related to the finest poem composed within the twentieth century, Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas. Structurally this poem is a villanelle —
A nineteen-line poetic form consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain. There are two refrains and two repeating rhymes, with the first and third line of the first tercet repeated alternately at the end of each subsequent stanza until the last stanza, which includes both repeated lines.
Extraordinary that such profound insight can be woven into such a demanding structure —
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
Another incredible expression was Slyvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song written when
she was a senior at Smith College in 1958 —
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
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