Sabre Tooth Sky

Today was not for dying,
no shadow man or beast
gained a drop of blood,
no rigid varnish stained a soul.
Death forgotten in Death,
this day was not for dying.

Rest now in your Lavender bed,
untouched by hooded lights.
Settle like a cwtch
and shake away the peppered bone
that chains us to our sin and sorrow.
The dangerous art of life
left far behind.
Today was not for dying.

Turn from blackening.
The raven has no calling
to your song,
no red in blood or coals
have purchase on your delight.
Step quickly into Saphire fields,
this day was not for dying.

A greater part of Love
again sheds its mad flesh,
dropping muscled furies like anchors
into a gentle froth.
Smile from your scrolled seat
as serpents and sores are banished
to mortal print.
Death was never near.
Today was not for dying...

@Steven Francis poems 2008


For my Mother, Susan Francis

Life has never been Lived as full as yours.

A New Land For Early Morn (Alainn Tir)

Along bearded roads we barrel
past sunset rusted chippys
and stale graffiti;
past the drunkards lair,
heading toward the sea at 2am
where graves are not as quiet,
or earth as thick.
Buzzards hand us to gulls
as roads give way to waves,
and a orange glow of the ferry port
tilts us closer to heather fringes.
Over mighty, boiling water
a fearsome soup,
we sail on the edges of dawn,
seduced by faithful promises
only Eire could give wing.
Land of bailead!
Such potent beauty to assault
the human frame,
so genorous a land to strangers.

God speed the engines
that shudder under feet
like a Kraken itself taking us
across the leather smacked seas;
pulling toward rising shores
with welcome bosom and froth.
Oh starry Gaelic soil,
a honeycomb for bards
and fitting bed for heroes,
our ship approaches.
The water shrugs off its black skin
and trails sink behind dawn;
beyond gangplank into hearts alive
where wakes rejoice unfazed by limit...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Pellets for Swallows and Pike

Watch Death and bands of dying;
the bird stutters in the dust
the wolf sings into darkness,
and rabbits charge into the hood
like drunks on holy orders.
But the fly is most game
in its shroud,
when it drops like a punch to oak
and kicks on fire,
as its wings like chainsaws on its spine
grow slowly still in laps...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Kung Fu/Bamboo Kiss

Power to satchel eye master
as the jigsaw ballet trips
to orders of the mandolin,
razor muscle super shield.
Mystic tricks from mortals
blow away feeble poseurs.
Let justice be done
before an audience of gentle dragons
in this beautiful manicured
sober art...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Daffodil In Ice Melted By Night

Summer crocodile wallow
in blood poses,
the children of Falstaff
love danger.
Wander on through green tipped lanes
toward butter and string music
and simmer as the sun
turns misery into cider chrome.
Yellow stalk raise the damp!
Disease has no patrol in cinder gardens
bonnetted by foxgloves,
the razor machine has no mascot here,
where gentleman die at night
cracked by the weight
of a bloated moon...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

B.I.D (Beautiful In Dying)

The horizon
sharp as scarab spines
hides a coil of clouds
beneath its green and thirsty belt,
but small is the slew approaching
compared to the wild ways of sinew.
A crazy mess of bones
holding death in human form
like a dreamcatcher woven from skin.
Glutton the air until the last rattle,
then give up to Azrael
with sober spirit
and ribcage neatly folded...

@Steven Francis poems 2009

Get Your Finger Out Of My Shoe

Step out of my shadow baby flower,
go rest in chocolate cradles
because I am a blood wasted street boy,
a fiend, a fisherman of dirty stories
where light is long forgotten.
Memories suffer in this brain damage,
only vandal actions remain.
Go dance on rainbows some place else,
go plant happy sticks in merry sunshine
and raise the dollars there.
I want nothing save my pretty circus
and golden sleeves,
a bed of bat skin
to lay the nightmares.
Damaged goods stay beautiful,
theres no fun in California smiles or hymns,
these eyes want gore,
lots of merry gore and tragedy.
Praise indeed to guld thugs, blades and heroin...

@Steven Francis poems 2009